by 

INGRAHAM  LOVELL 


4  0  9  £ 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


THEY  CROONED  TOGETHER  THERE,  THE  WOMAN,  THE  CHILD  AND  THE  BIRDS 


SOUL 


THE   ROMANTIC    RECOLLECTIONS 
OF  A  MAN  OF  FIFTY 


BY 
INGRAHAM  LOVELL 

WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS   BY   J.   SCOTT  WILLIAMS 
AND  WHISTLER  BUTTERFLY  DECORATIONS 


NEW  YORK  :  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 

LONDON:     JOHN    LANE,     THE    BODLEY    HEAD 

M  CM  I  X 

I  ^O^ 


Copyright,  1909 
By  THE  PHILLIPS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

Copyright,  iqoq 
BY  JOHN  LANS  COMPANY 


PUBLISHERS  PRINTING  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK 


CONTENTS 

PART  I 
IN  WHICH  You  SEE  A  SECRET  SPRING 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  Fate  Walks  Broadway      ------n 

II.  Fate  Goes  A-fishing          ------17 

III.  As  the  Twigs  Were  Bent  ------      28 

IV.  Fate  Reels  In     --------      37 

PART  II 
IN  WHICH  THE  SPRING  FLOWS  IN  A  LITTLE  STREAM 

V.  Roger  Finds  the  Island     ------  47 

VI.  Fate  Casts  Her  Die  -------  59 

VII.  I  Ride  Knight  Errant 66 

VIII.  The  Mists  of  Eden 74. 

PART  III 

IN  WHICH  THE  STREAM  JOINS  WITH  OTHERS 
AND  PLUNGES  DOWN  A  CLIFF 

IX.  Margarita  Meets  the  Enemy  and  He  is  Hers  -       -  81 

X.  Fate  Spreads  an  Island  Feast  -----  87 

XL  Our  Parson  Proves  Capable    -----  94 

XII.  I  Leave  Eden 105 

PART  IV 

IN  WHICH  THE   STREAM  WINDS  THROUGH  A 
SULLEN  MARSH  AND  BECOMES  A  BROOK 

XIII.  Straws  that  Showed  the  Wind         -       -       -       -     in 

XIV.  The  Island  Cottage 118 

XV.     Fate  Plays  Me  in  the  Shallows        -  130 

XVI.    Margarita  Comes  to  Town      -----    14.1 

[5] 


2136716 


CONTENTS 


PART  V 

IN  WHICH  THE  BROOK  BECOMES  A  RIVER  AND 
FLOWS  BY  GREAT  CITIES 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVII.     Our  Pearl  Bathes  in  Seine  Water     -  149 

XVIII.     My  Pearl  of  Too  Great  Price    -       -       -       -     157 

XIX.     Fate  Lands  Me  on  the  Rocks    -      -      -       -     164 

PART  VI 

IN  WHICH  You  ARE  SHOWN  THE  RIVER'S  VERY 
SOURCES,  FAR  UNDERGROUND 

XX.     A  Garden  Glimpse  of  Eden       -       -       -       -     181 

XXI.    Hester  Prynne's  Secret       -       -      -      -       -     186 

XXII.     Fate  Laughs  and  Baits  Her  Hook     -       -       -     196 

PART  VII 

IN  WHICH  THE  RIVER  LEAPS  A  SUDDEN  CLIFF 
AND  BECOMES  A  CATARACT 

XXIII.  Fate  Spreads  Her  Net 213 

XXIV.  Our  Second  Summer  in  Eden    -       -       -       -    221 
XXV.    The  Island  Tomb 231 

XXVI.     A  Handful  of  Memories      -----    235 

PART  VIII 

IN  WHICH  THE  RIVER  RUSHES  INTO  PERILOUS 
RAPIDS 

XXVII.     We  Bring  Our  Pearl  to  Market         -       -       -    247 

XXVIII.     Arabian  Nights  in  England        -  257 

XXIX.     Fate  Grips  Her  Landing  Net     -  273 

PART  IX 
IN  WHICH  THE  RIVER  FINDS  THE  SEA 

XXX.     A  Terror  in  the  Snow         -  279 

XXXI.     Fate  Empties  Her  Creel 289 

XXXII.    The  Sunset  End 294 

[6] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


They  Crooned  Together  There,  the  Woman,  the  Child 

and  the  Birds    -------      Frontispiece 

PAGE 

Scooped  Hundreds — Perhaps  Thousands — Out  of  a  Chest 

to  Flee  at  Dawn       --------43 

The  Tall,  Gaunt,  Silent  Woman  .  .  .  Striding  Through 

the  Pastures      ---------       49 

I  Seem  to  See  ...  a  Beautiful  Woman  in  a  Blue  Dress 

Sitting  Under  a  Fruit  Tree    -       -       -       -       -       -105 

Persons  Born  in  That  Month  of  That  Year  Will  Never 

Be  Otherwise  Than  Far  Out  of  the  Ordinary     -       -     132 

Margarita  Stopped  and  Stared  at  It  Several  Minutes  -  144 
For  Hours  and  Hours  I  Walked,  Muttering  and  Cursing  -  163 
Her  Weekly  Check,  Plus  a  Draft  for  a  Hundred  Pounds  -  174 

She  Spins  Her  Hemp  and  Weaves  Osiers  into  Baskets 

and  Changes  Them  for  Goats'  Hams  -       -       -       -     204 

The  Gloomy,  Faded  Glories  of  the  Musty  Palace     -      -    208 

Ah,  Faithful  Caliban,  What  Hours  of  Terrible  Tuition 

Made  Thy  Task  Clear  to  Thee!   -----     233 

He  Sketched  Her  in  Charcoal,  Dressed  (He  Would  Have 

It)  in  Black      ---------    240 

[7] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


It  Was  After  the  Garden  Love-Scene  That  She  Won 

Her  Recalls       ---------     250 

They  Are  Still  as  Death,  Tranced  in  Those  Liquid  Bell- 
Tones        ----------    270 

I  Leaned  Over  the  Bank  and  Cried  That  I  Was  There, 

But  She  Never  Stopped — It  Was  Terrible       -       -    281 

It  Is  a  Favourite  Claim  of  Ours  Who  Are  Bidden  to  That 

Home  That  It  Is  an  Enchanted  Isle    -  296 


[8] 


PART  ONE 

IN  WHICH  YOU  SEE  A  SECRET  SPRING 


O  I  have  seen  a  fair  mermaid, 
That  sang  beside  a  lonely  sea, 

And  now  her  long  black  hair  she'll  braid, 
And  be  my  own  good  wife  to  me. 


O  woe's  the  day  you  saw  the  maid, 
And  woe's  the  song  she  sang  the  sea, 

In  hell  her  long  black  hair  she'll  braid, 
For  ne'er  a  soul  at  all  has  she! 


Sir  Hugh  and  the  Mermaiden. 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 

CHAPTER  I 
FATE  WALKS  BROADWAY 

ROGER  BRADLEY  was  walking  up  Broadway.  This 
fact  calls  sharply  for  comment,  for  he  had  not  done  it  in 
years;  the  thoroughfare  was  intolerable  to  him.  But  one 
of  its  impingements  upon  a  less  blatant  avenue  had  caught 
him  napping  and  he  found  himself  entangled  in  a  mesh  of 
theatre  dribblings,  pool-room  loungers,  wine-touts  and 
homeward  bent  women  of  the  middle,  shopping  class. 
Being  there,  he  scorned  to  avail  himself  of  the  regularly 
recurring  cross  streets,  but  strode  along,  his  straight,  trim 
bulk,  his  keen,  judicial  profile — a  profile  that  spoke  strong 
of  the  best  traditions  of  American  blood — marking  him  for 
what  he  was  among  a  crowd  not  to  be  matched,  in  its  way, 
upon  the  Western  Continent. 

At  the  second  slanting  of  the  great,  tawdry  lane  he  bent 
with  it  and  encountered  suddenly  a  little  knot  of  flustered 
women  just  descended  from  the  elevated  way  that  doubled 
the  din  and  blare  of  the  shrieking  city.  They  were  bundle- 
filled,  voluble,  dressed  by  any  standards  save  those  of  their 
native- city,  far  beyond  their  probable  means  and  undoubted 
station.  As  they  stopped  unexpectedly  and  hesitated, 
damming  the  flood  of  hurrying  citizens,  Roger  halted  of 
necessity  and  stepped  backward,  but  in  avoiding  them  he 
bumped  heavily  against  the  person  behind  him.  A  startled 
gasp,  something  soft  against  his  shoulder,  the  sharp  edge  of  a 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


projecting  hat,  told  him  that  this  person  was  a  woman,  and 
stepping  sidewise  into  the  shelter  of  a  neighbouring  news-stall, 
he  raised  his  hat  with  a  courtesy  alien  to  the  place  and  hour. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  madam,"  he  said,  "  I  trust  I  have  not 
hurt  you?" 

"No,"  said  the  woman,  who  wore  a  heavy  grey  veil,  and 
as  that  is  literally  all  she  said  and  as  her  method  of  saying 
it  was  as  convincing  as  it  was  simple,  one  would  suppose  the 
incident  closed  and  look  to  see  Roger  complete  his  journey 
to  his  club  without  further  adventure. 

Do  I  wish  he  had?  God  knows.  It  was  undoubtedly 
the  turning-point  in  his  life  and  he  was  forty.  Had  he  gone 
on  to  the  club  where  I  was  waiting  for  him;  had  we  dined, 
played  out  our  rubber,  dropped  in  at  the  occasional  chamber 
concert  that  was  our  usual  and  almost  our  only  dissipation 
in  those  days,  I  should  not  now  be  ransacking  old  letters 
and  diaries  from  which  to  make  this  book,  nor  would  Marga- 
rita's picture — her  loveliest,  as  Juliet — lean  toward  me  from 
the  wall.  She  is  smiling;  not  as  one  smiles  in  photographs, 
but  as  a  flesh-and-blood  woman  droops  over  the  man  she 
loves  and  smiles  her  heart  into  his  lips,  reaching  over  his 
shoulder.  Everything  slips  behind  but  you  two,  herself 
and  you,  when  you  look  at  it.  Sarony,  who  took  it,  told  me 
he  had  never  posed  such  a  subject,  and  I  believe  him. 

Well,  well,  it's  done  now.  It  was  twenty  years  ago  that 
Roger  bumped  into  his  fate  in  that  eddy  of  Broadway  and 
I  was  as  powerless  as  you  are  now  to  disentangle  him  and 
keep  him  for  myself,  which,  selfishly  enough,  of  course,  I 
wanted  terribly  to  do.  You  see,  he  was  all  I  had,  Roger, 
and  I  was  hoping  we  would  play  the  game  out  together. 
But — not  to  have  known  Margarita?  Never  to  have 
watched  that  bending  droop  of  her  neck,  that  extraordinary 
colouring  of  her  skin — a  real  Henner  skin!  I  remember 
Maurice  Grau's  telling  me  that  he  had  always  thought 
Henner  colour  blind  till  he  saw  Margarita's  neck  in  her  name- 
part  in  Faust. 
[12] 


FATE   WALKS   BROADWAY 

The  things  that  girl  used  to  tell  me,  before  she  had  any 
soul,  of  course,  and  in  the  days  when  I  was  the  third  man 
to  whom  she  had  ever  spoken  more  than  ten  words  in  her 
life,  were  almost  enough  to  pay  for  all  the  pain  she  taught 
me.  Such  talks!  I  can  close  my  eyes  and  actually  smell 
the  sea- weed  and  the  damp  sand  and  hear  the  inrush  of  the 
big  combers.  She  used  to  sit  in  the  lee  of  the  rocks,  all 
huddled  in  that  heavy,  supple  army-blue  officer's  cloak  of 
hers  with  its  tarnished  silver  clasps,  and  talk  as  Miranda 
must  have  talked  to  Ferdinand's  old  bachelor  friend,  who 
probably  appreciated  the  chance — too  well,  the  poor  old  dog! 

I  had  reached,  I  think,  when  I  left  off  my  plain  unvar- 
nished tale  and  took  to  maundering,  that  precise  point  in  it 
which  exhibits  Roger  in  the  act  of  replacing  his  hat  upon 
his  even  then  slightly  greyish  head  and  striding  on.  It 
seems  to  me  that  he  would  not  have  checked  in  his  stride 
if  the  woman  had  replied  after  the  usual  tautological  fashion 
of  her  sex  (we  blame  them  for  it,  not  thinking  how  wholly 
in  nature  it  is  that  they  should  be  so,  like  the  repeated  notes 
of  birds,  the  persistence  of  the  raindrops,  the  continual 
flicker  of  the  sun  through  the  always  fluttering  leaves,) 
with  some  such  phrase  as,  "No,  indeed,  not  in  the  least, 
I  assure  you!"  or  "Not  at  all,  really — don't  mention  it!" 
or  even,  "No,  indeed,"  with  ashy  bow  or  a  composed  one, 
as  the  case  might  be.  But  this  woman  uttered  merely  the 
syllable,  "No,"  with  no  modification  nor  variation,  no 
inclination  of  the  head,  no  movement  forward  or  back. 
Her  utterance  was  grave,  moreover,  and  precise;  her  tone 
noticeably  full  and  deep.  Roger,  pausing  a  moment  in  the 
shelter  of  the  news-stall,  spoke  again  at  the  spur  of  some 
unexplainable  impulse. 

"I  was  afraid  I  had  stepped  directly  on  your  foot — it 
felt  so, "  he  said. 

Again  she  answered  simply,  "No,"  and  that  was  his  second 
chance.  Now  in  the  face  of  these  facts  it  is  folly  to  contend  that 
the  woman  "  accosted  "  him,  as  his  cousin,  who  was  one  of  the 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


Boston  Thayers,  put  it  to  me.  She  did  nothing  of  the  kind; 
she  replied  twice,  to  his  distinct  questions,  in  the  coldest 
of  monosyllables  and  he  could  not  even  have  told  if  she 
looked  at  him,  her  veil  was  so  thick.  Let  that  be  definitely 
understood,  once  and  for  all.  The  chances  were  even  in 
favour  of  her  being  violently  pitted  from  the  small-pox,  since 
even  twenty  years  ago,  when  the  city  was  less  cosmopolitan 
(and  from  my  point  of  view  more  interesting)  the  women 
of  New  York  of  the  class  that  travels  unaccompanied  and 
on  foot  at  dusk  were  not  accustomed  to  go  heavily  veiled 
if  they  had  any  fair  excuse  for  the  contrary  course. 

Nevertheless  to  that  veiled  woman  did  Roger  address 
himself — unnecessarily,  mark  you — for  the  third  time. 
Why  did  he?  He  had  his  chance;  two  chances  in  fact. 
But  this  is  folly,  for  of  course  he  had  no  chance  at  all.  Fate 
stood  by  that  news-stall,  with  the  blear-eyed,  frousy  woman 
that  tended  it  looking  vacantly  on;  Fate,  veiled,  too,  and  not 
even  monosyllabic  in  his  behalf.  I  should  have  known  this, 
I  think,  even  if  I  had  not  lived  those  curious,  long  eight 
months  in  Algeria  and  slept  those  dreamless  nights  under  the 
Algerian  stars  that  got  into  my  blood  and  call  me  back  now 
and  then ;  imperiously  and  never  in  vain,  though  I  feel  older 
than  the  stars,  and  Alif  and  the  rest  are  dead  or  exhibiting 
themselves  at  the  great  American  memorial  fairs  that  began 
to  flourish  about  the  time  this  tale  begins.  No,  there  was 
no  help:  it  was  written. 

"I  am  glad  I  did  not  hurt  you,"  he  said,  really  moving 
forward  now  and  again  raising  his  hat,  "these  crowds  are 
dangerous  for  women  at  this  hour." 

He  took  two  steps  and  stopped  suddenly,  for  a  hand 
slipped  under  his  arm.  (You  should  have  seen  his  cousin's 
face,  the  Boston  one,  when  in  that  relentless  way  known 
only  to  women  and  eminent  artists  in  cross-examination 
she  got  this  fact  out  of  me.) 

"Will  you  tell  me  the  quickest  way  to  Broadway?"  said 
the  woman  to  whom  he  had  just  spoken. 

[14] 


FATE   WALKS    BROADWAY 

"To  Broadway?"  he  echoed  stupidly,  standing  stock 
still,  conscious  of  the  grasp  upon  his  arm,  a  curious  sense 
of  the  importance  of  this  apparently  cheap  experience 
surging  over  him,  even  while  he  resented  its  banality. 
"This  is  Broadway.  What  do  you  want  of  it?" 

"I  want  to  show  myself  on  it,"  said  the  woman,  a  young 
woman,  from  the  voice. 

Roger  stepped  back  against  the  news-stall,  dragging  her 
with  him,  since  her  hand  did  not  leave  his  arm. 

"  To  show  yourself  on  it  ?  "  he  repeated  sternly,  "  and  why 
do  you  want  to  do  that?"  . 

"To  get  myself  some  friends.  I  have  none,"  said  she 
serenely. 

Now  you  must  not  think  Roger  a  fool,  for  he  was  not. 
You  see,  you  never  heard  the  voice  that  spoke  to  him.  If 
you  had,  and  had  possessed  any  experience  or  knowledge  of 
the  world,  you  would  have  realised  that  the  owner  of  that 
voice  possessed  neither  or  else  was  a  very  great  and  con- 
vincing actress.  Mere  print  cannot  excuse  him,  perhaps, 
but  I  give  you  my  word  he  was  as  a  matter  of  fact  excusable, 
since  he  was  a  bachelor.  Most  men  are  very  susceptible 
to  the  human  voice,  especially  to  the  female  human  voice, 
and  it  has  always  been  a  matter  of  the  deepest  wonder  to  me 
that  the  men  who  do  not  hear  a  lovely  one  once  in  the  year 
are  most  under  the  dominion  of  their  females.  I  mean, 
of  course,  the  Americans.  It  is  one  of  the  greatest  proofs 
of  the  power  of  these  Idles  Americaines  that  they  wield  it 
in  spite  of  the  rustiness  of  this,  their  chief  national  weapon. 

The  bell  notes,  the  grave,  full  richness  of  this  veiled 
woman's  voice  touched  Roger  deeply  and  with  a  brusque 
motion  he  drew  out  from  his  pocket  a  banknote  and  pressed 
it  into  the  hand  under  his  arm. 

"Take  this  and  go  home,"  he  said  severely.  "If  you  will 
promise  me  to  call  at  an  address  I  will  give  you,  I  will 
guarantee  you  a  decent  means  of  livelihood.  Will  you 
promise  me?" 

[15] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


She  reached  down  without  a  word  into  a  bag  that  hung  en 
chatelaine  at  her  waist  and  drew  out  something  in  her  turn. 

"I  have  a  great  many  of  those,"  she  said  placidly,  "and 
more  at  home.  See  them!" 

And  under  his  face  she  thrust  a  double  handful  of  stamped 
paper — all  green. 

"Each  one  of  these  is  called  twenty  dollars,"  she  informed 
him,  "and  some  of  them  are  called  fifty  dollars.  They  are 
in  the  bottom  of  the  bag.  I  do  not  think  that  I  need  any 
more." 

Roger  stared  at  her. 

"Put  that  away  directly,"  he  said,  "and  lift  your  veil 
so  that  I  can  see  who  you  are.  There  is  something  wrong 
here." 

They  stood  in  the  lee  of  the  flaring  stall,  a  pair  so  obvious 
in  their  relation  to  each  other,  one  would  say,  as  to  require 
no  comment  beyond  the  cynical  indifference  of  the  red-eyed 
woman  who  tended  it.  No  doubt  she  had  long  ceased  to 
.count  the  well-dressed,  athletic  men  who  drew  indifferently 
clothed  young  women  into  the  shelter  of  her  stand.  And 
yet  no  one  of  his  Puritan  ancestors  could  have  been  further 
in  spirit  from  her  dreary  inferences  than  this  Roger.  Nor 
do  I  believe  him  to  be  so  exceptional  in  this  as  to  cause 
remark.  We  are  not  all  birds  of  prey,  dear  ladies,  believe 
me.  Indeed,  since  you  have  undertaken  the  responsi- 
bilities of  the  literary  dissecting-room  so  thoroughly  and 
increasingly;  since  you  have,  as  one  might  say,  at  last  freed 
your  minds  to  us  in  the  amazing  frankness  of  your  mul- 
titudinous and  unsparing  pages,  I  am  greatly  tempted  to 
wonder  if  you  are  not  essentially  less  decent  than  we.  One 
would  never  have  ventured  to  suspect  it,  had  you  not 
opened  the  door.  .  .  . 

The  woman  threw  back  her  veil  so  that  it  framed  her  face 

like  a  cloud  and  Roger  looked  straight  into  her  eyes.     And 

so  the  curtain  rolled  up,  the  orchestra  ceased  its  irrelevant 

pipings  and  the  play  was  begun. 

[16] 


CHAPTER   II 
FATE  GOES  A-FISHING 

ROGER  told  me  afterward  that  he  literally  could  not  say 
if  it  were  five  seconds  or  five  minutes  that  he  looked  into  the 
girl's  eyes.  He  has  since  leaned  to  the  opinion  that  it  was 
nearer  five  minutes,  because  even  the  news-woman  stared 
at  him  and  the  passing  street  boys  had  already  begun  to 
collect.  Some  subconscious  realisation  of  this  finally 
enabled  him  to  drag  his  eyes  away,  very  much  as  one  drags 
himself  awake  when  he  must,  and  to  realise  the  picture  he 
presented — a  dazed  man  confronting  an  extraordinarily 
lovely  girl  with  her  fist  full  of  banknotes  on  a  Broadway 
kerbstone.  An  interested  cabby  caught  his  eye,  wagged  his 
whip  masterfully,  wheeled  up  to  them  and  with  an  apparently 
complete,  grasp  of  the  situation  whirled  them  off  through  a 
side  street  with  never  so  much  as  a  "Where  to,  sir?" 

And  so  he  found  himself  alone  with  an  unknown  beauty 
in  a  hansom  cab,  for  all  the  world  like  a  mysterious  hero  of 
melodrama,  and  Roger  hated  melodrama  and  was  never 
mysterious  in  all  his  life,  to  say  nothing  of  disliking  mystery 
in  anyone  connected  with  him.  He  says  he  was  extremely 
angry  at  this  juncture  and  I  believe  him. 

"What  is  your  name?"  he  asked  shortly.  "Have  you 
no  parents  or  friends  to  protect  you  from  the  consequences 
of  this  crazy  performance?  Where  do  you  live?" 

"My  name  is  Margarita,"  she  replied  directly  and  pleas- 
antly, "  I  never  had  but  one  parent  and  he  died  a  few  days 
ago.  I  live  by  the  sea." 

An  ugly  thrill  shot  down  his  spine.  No  healthy  person 
likes  to  be  alone  with  a  mad  woman,  and  under  a  brilliant 

['71 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


fleeting  light  he  studied  her  curiously  only  to  receive  the 
certain  conviction  that  whatever  his  companion  might  be, 
she  was  not  mad.  Her  slate-blue  eyes  were  calm  and  bright, 
her  lips  rather  noticeably  firm  for  all  their  curves — and 
the  mad  woman's  mouth  bewrayeth  her  inevitably  under 
scrutiny.  Nor  was  she  drugged  into  some  passing  vacancy 
of  mind:  her  whole  atmosphere  breathed  a  perfectly  con- 
scious control  of  her  movements,  however  misguided  the 
event  might  prove  them.  Before  this  conviction  he  hesi- 
tated slightly. 

"You  have  another  name,  however,"  he  said  gently, 
"and  what  do  you  mean  by  the  sea?  What  sea?" 

For  it  occurred  to  him  that  although  her  English  was 
perfect,  she  might  be  an  utter  stranger  to  the  country, 
unthinkably  abandoned,  with  sufficient  means  to  salve  her 
betrayer's  conscience. 

"Is  there  more  than  one  sea,  then?"  she  inquired  of  him 
with  interest.  "I  thought  there  was  only  mine.  It  is  a 
very  large  one  with  high  waves — and  cold,"  she  added  as 
an  after-thought. 

Roger  gasped.  "You  did  not  tell  me  your  other  name," 
he  said. 

"Josephine,"  she  replied  readily,  pronouncing  the  name 
in  the  French  manner. 

"But  you  have  another  still?" 

"Yes.  Dolores,"  she  said,  with  an  evidently  accustomed 
Spanish  accent. 

"And  the  last  name?"  he  persisted  in  despair,  noting 
with  some  busy  corner  of  his  mind  that  they  were  drifting 
down  Fifth  Avenue. 

"That  is  all  there  are,"  she  assured  him,  "surely  three 
different  names  are  sufficient  for  one  person  ?  I  do  not  use 
the  last  two — only  Margarita." 

Roger  squared  his  shoulders,  took  the  banknotes  from 
•  her  unresisting  hand  and  gravely  folded  them  into  her  bag 
before  he  spoke  again. 
[18] 


FATE    GOES   A-FISHING 


"Listen  to  me,  Miss  Margarita,"  he  said  slowly  and  with 
exaggerated  articulation,  as  one  speaks  to  a  child,  "what 
was  your  father's  name  ?  What  did  the  people  in  the  town 
you  live  in  call  him?" 

"I  told  you  we  lived  by  the  sea — did  you  forget?"  she 
answered,  a  shade  reprovingly.  "There  is  no  town  at  all. 
And  there  are  no  people.  We  live  alone." 

"But  your  servants  must  have  called  him  something?" 
he  persisted. 

"Hester  called  my  father  'sir'  and  the  boy  cannot  talk, 
of  course,"  she  said. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  he  is  dumb.  His  name  is  Caliban,"  she  added 
hastily,  "and  he  has  no  other,  only  that  one." 

"What  is  Hester's  name?"    Roger  demanded  doggedly. 

"Hester  Prynne,"  said  Margarita  Josephine  Dolores, 
"and  I  have  had  nothing  to  eat  since  the  man  with  the  shin- 
ing buttons  gave  me  meat  between  bread  a  great  many  hours 
ago.  I  wish  I  might  see  another  such  man.  He  might 
be  willing  to  give  me  more.  Will  you  look  out  and  tell  me 
if  you  see  one?" 

"For  heaven's  sake,"  Roger  cried,  "you  are  hungry! 
You  should  have  said  so  before — why  didn't  you?" 

He  called  out  a  name  to  the  cabman  who  took  them 
quickly  to  a  place  now  called  "the  old  one,"  because  the 
new  one  is  filled  with  people  who  endeavour  consistently 
to  look  newer  than  they  are,  I  suppose.  The  wine  is  newer 
certainly,  and  the  manners.  At  this  place,  then,  in  a  quaint 
old  corner,  they  found  themselves,  and  Roger  bespoke  a 
meal  calculated  to  please  a  young  woman  far  more  exigent 
than  this  lonely  dweller  by  the  sea  was  likely  to  be.  The 
clearest  of  soups,  the  driest  of  sherry  in  a  tiny  glass,  some- 
thing called  by  the  respectful  and  understanding  waiter 
"sdle  frite,"  which  was  at  any  rate,  quite  as  good  as  if  it  had 
been  that,  a  hot  and  savoury  poulet  roti — and  Roger,  who 
had  been  too  busy  to  take  luncheon,  looked  about  him, 

[19] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


contentedly  well  fed,  rested  his  eyes  with  the  clean,  coarse 
linen,  the  red  wine  in  its  straw  basket  that  had  come  with 
the  poulet,  the  quiet,  worn  fittings  of  the  little  old-world 
place,  and  realised  with  a  shock  of  surprise  that  his  com- 
panion had  not  spoken  a  word  since  the  meal  began. 

This  was  obviously  not  because  she  was  famished,  though 
she  had  the  healthy  hunger  of  the  creature  not  yet  done  with 
growing,  but  because,  simply,  she  felt  no  necessity  for  speech. 
She  was  evidently  thinking,  for  her  eyes  had  the  fixed 
absorption  of  a  child's  who  dreams  over  his  bread  and  milk, 
but  conversation  she  had  none.  He  studied  her,  amused 
partly,  partly  lost  in  her  beauty,  for  indeed  she  was  beautiful. 
She  had  a  pure  olive  skin,  running  white  into  the  neck — oh, 
the  back  of  Margarita's  neck!  That  tender  nape  with  its 
soft,  nearly  blonde  locks  that  curled  short  about  it  below 
the  heavy  waves  of  what  she  called  her  "real  hair."  That 
was  chestnut,  dark  brown  at  night.  Nature  had  given  her 
long  dark  lashes  with  perfect  verisimilitude,  but  had  at 
the  last  moment  capriciously  decided  against  man's  peace 
and  hidden  behind  them,  set  deep  behind  them  under 
flexible  Italian  brows,  those  curious  slate-blue  eyes  that 
fixed  her  face  in  your  mind  inalterably.  You  could  not 
forget  her.  I  know,  because  I  have  been  trying  for  twenty 
years. 

"You  are  not,  I  take  it,  accustomed  to  dining  out,  Miss 
Margarita?"  said  Roger,  amused,  contented,  ignorant  of 
the  cause  of  his  sudden  sense  of  absolute  bien  etre,  or  attrib- 
uting it,  man  like,  to  his  good  dinner. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  answered,  "I  dine  out  very  often.  I  like 
it  better." 

He  bit  his  lip  with  quick  displeasure;  she  was  merely 
eccentric,  then,  not  naive.  For  like  every  other  man 
Roger  detested  eccentric  women.  It  has  always  been  a 
marvel  to  me  that  women  of  distinct  brain  capacity  so 
almost  universally  fail  to  realise  that  we  like  you  better 
fashionable,  even,  than  eccentric.  You  do  not  understand 

[20] 


FATE   GOES   A-FISHING 


why,  dear  ladies:  you  think  it  must  be  that  we  prefer 
fashion  to  brains,  but  indeed  it  is  not  so.  It  is  because  to 
be  fashionable  is  for  you  to  be  normal,  at  least,  that  we 
tolerate  your  sheeplike  marches  and  counter-marches  across 
the  plain  of  society. 

"Where  do  you  dine  when  you  dine  out?"  he  inquired 
coldly,  to  trap  her  at  last  into  some  explanation. 

"On  the  rocks,"  she  answered  serenely,  "or  under  the 
trees.  Sometimes  on  the  sand  close  to  the  water.  I  like 
it  better  than  in  the  house." 

Roger  experienced  a  ridiculous  sense  of  relief. 

"Do  you  dine  alone?"  he  asked  and  she  answered 
quietly, 

"  Of  course.  My  father  always  ate  by  himself,  and  Hester, 
too.  Caliban  will  never  let  anyone  see  him  eat:  I  have 
often  tried,  but  he  hides  himself." 

The  waiter  brought  them  at  this  point  an  ivory-white 
salad  of  endive  set  with  ruby  points  of  beet,  drenched  in 
pure  olive-oil,  and  of  this  soothing  luxury  Margarita  con- 
sumed two  large  plates  in  dreamy  silence. 

"I  like  this  food,"  she  remarked  at  last,  "I  like  it  better 
than  Hester's." 

Roger  grew  literally  warm  with  satisfaction.  He  was 
still  smiling  when  she  spooned  out  a  great  mouthful  of  the 
delicate  ice  before  her  and  under  his  amazed  eyes  set  her 
teeth  in  it. 

The  horror  of  that  humiliating  scene  woke  him,  years 
afterward,  through  more  than  one  clammy  midnight.  In 
one  second  the  peaceful  dining-room  was  a  chattering, 
howling  reign  of  terror.  For  Margarita,  with  a  choking 
cry  of  rage  and  anguish,  threw  the  ice  with  terrible  preci- 
sion into  the  bland  face  of  the  waiter  who  had  brought  it; 
threw  her  glass  of  water  with  an  equal  accuracy  into  the 
wide-open  eyes  of  the  head  waiter,  who  appeared  instantly; 
threw  Roger's  wine-glass  full  into  his  own  horrified  face 
as  he  rose  to  catch  her  death-dealing  hand,  and  lifting  with 

[21] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


the  magnificent  single-armed  sweep  of  a  Greek  war-goddess 
her  chair  from  behind  her,  stood  facing  them,  glaring  silently, 
a  slate-eyed  Pallas  gloriously  at  bay! 

The  red  wine  poured  down  Roger's  face  like  blood;  the 
force  of  the  blow  nearly  stunned  him,  but  by  a  supreme 
effort  he  bit  furiously  at  his  tongue  and  the  pain  steadied 
him.  As  he  swept  the  table  over  with  a  crash  and  wrenched 
the  chair  from  her  hand  (and  he  took  his  strength  for  it) 
he  became  aware  that  the  angry  excitement  behind  his  back, 
the  threatening  babel,  had  subsided  to  long-drawn  sighs 
of  pity,  and  realised  with  a  sort  of  disgusted  relief  that  the 
blow  he  had  himself  suffered  from  this  panting,  writhing 
maenad  had  somehow  changed  the  situation  and  that  he 
was  an  object  of  horrified  sympathy.  Mercifully,  the  room 
was  scantily  filled,  for  it  was  early,  and  his  curt  explanation 
was  accepted  in  respectful  silence. 

"Mademoiselle  is — is  not  responsible  for  her  act,  I  beg 
you  to  believe,"  he  said  grimly,  white  with  humiliation  and 
pain.  "I  beg  you  will  accept  ..." 

The  two  waiters  pocketed  a  week's  earnings  in  voluble 
deprecation,  the  proprietor  shrugged  his  excitement  away 
into  an  admirable  regret,  the  diners  wrenched  their  eyes 
from  Margarita's  face  and  affected  to  see  nothing  as  Roger 
buttoned  her  cheapish  vague-coloured  jacket  around  her 
and  ordered  her  sternly  to  straighten  her  hat.  Her  fingers 
literally  trembled  with  rage,  her  soft,  round  breasts,  strangely 
distinct  in  outline  to  his  fingers  as  he  strained  the  tight 
jacket  over  them,  rose  and  fell  stormily;  in  a  troubled 
flash  of  memory  he  seemed  to  be  handling  some  throbbing, 
shot  bird.  His  own  clumsiness  and  strange,  heady  elation 
he  attributed  to  the  shock  of  the  wine  in  his  face. 

In  an  incredibly  short  time  the  table  was  upright,  the 
debris  removed,  the  room,  except  for  the  indefinable,  electric 
sense  of  recent  tragedy  that  hovers  over  such  scenes,  much 
as  it  had  been.  Roger  had  carried,  fortunately  for  him, 
a  light  overcoat  on  his  arm,  and  this  would  hide  his  white, 
[aa] 


FATE    GOES   A-FISHING 


stained  triangle  of  vest  with  a  little  management.  Grasping 
Margarita  by  the  arm  he  led  her  out  of  the  room,  and  for 
the  first  time  questioned  her. 

"Are  you  mad?"  he  muttered.  "What  do  you  mean 
by  such  a  performance?" 

"That  man,"  she  answered,  her  voice  vibrating  like  a 
swept  violoncello,  "is  a  devil.  Did  you  not  see  what  he 
gave  me  ?  It  was  not  food  at  all,  but  freezing  snow.  Snow 
should  not  be  in  a  glass,  but  on  the  ground.  It  is  plain 
that  he  wishes  to  kill  me." 

Her  resonant  voice  filled  every  corner  of  the  room;  it  was 
impossible  for  anyone  in  it  to  miss  the  situation,  and  with  a 
sudden  inspiration  Roger  spoke  with  a  special  distinctness 
to  the  proprietor,  noticing  that  the  dozen  persons  at  the 
tables  were  obviously  French,  and  using  that  language. 

"Mademoiselle  is  but  recently  come  out  of  the  convent," 
said  he.  "She  has  lived  always  in  the  provinces  and  has 
never  had  the  honour  of  tasting  such  admirable  forms  of 
dessert  as  Monsieur  offers  his  patrons." 

The  proprietor  bowed;  an  extraordinary  mixture  of  ex- 
pressions played  over  his  countenance. 

"That  sees  itself,  Monsieur,"  he  replied.  "The  affair  is 
already  forgotten.  I  have  summoned  a  closed  carriage  for 
Monsieur." 

And  thus  it  was  that  Roger  found  himself  for  the  second 
time  in  a  carriage  with  Margarita  Josephine  Dolores,  but 
with  a  great  difference  in  his  attitude  toward  that  young 
person.  It  is  a  fact  possibly  curious  but  certainly  unde- 
niable, that  when  one  receives  a  wine-glass  full  in  the  face 
at  the  hands  of  an  acquaintance,  however  recent,  this  ac- 
quaintance is  placed  immediately  upon  terms  of  a  certain 
intimacy  with  one;  the  ice,  at  least,  is  broken.  An  uncon- 
scious conviction  of  this  coloured  Roger's  tone  and  shone  in 
his  eyes. 

"You  must  never  do  such  a  thing  as  that,  Margarita," 
he  said,  "that  was  a  terrible  thing  to  do." 

[23] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


"It  was  a  terrible  thing  that  he  did  to  me,"  replied  Mar- 
garita composedly. 

"Nonsense,"  said  Roger,  "perfect  nonsense!  The  man 
meant  you  no  harm.  He  brought  you  only  what  I  had 
ordered  for  you." 

"  You !  You  told  him  to  try  to  kill  me  ? "  cried  this  un- 
believable Margarita,  and  turning  in  her  seat  with  the 
swiftness  of  a  panther  she  slapped  him,  a  stinging ,  biting 
blow,  flat  across  his  cheek.  A  tornado  of  answering  rage 
whirled  him  out  of  himself  and  seizing  her  wrists,  he  bent 
^hem  behind  her  back. 

If  I  seem  to  be  unwarrantably  acquainted  with  Roger's 
emotions  at  this  crisis,  it  is  only  because  I  understand  them 
from  experience,  not  because  he  analysed  them  at  length 
for  me.  I  too  have  been  in  conflict,  real  physical  conflict, 
with  Margarita.  I  too  have  felt  that  old  unpitying  frenzy, 
that  unreasonable  delight  in  vanquishing  her  furious 
strength.  Something  in  Roger — I  know  how  suddenly, 
how  amazingly — strained  and  snapped;  the  old  bonds  of 
civilisation  (which  with  the  Anglo-Saxon  has  always  been 
feminisation)  burst  and  dropped  away,  and  the  lust  of  physi- 
cal ascendency  caught  him  and  swept  the  pretty  legends  of 
moral  control  and  chivalrous  forbearing  into  the  dust  bins 
and  kitchen  middens  of  nature's  great  domestic  economy. 
What  was  it  in  Margarita  that  drew  that  old,  primitive 
passion,  that  ancient  world-stuff  out  of  its  decorous  grave, 
all  planted  with  orchids  and  maiden-hair,  that  woke  it  with 
a  rough  shout  in  us  and  offered  us  at  the  same  time  its 
natural  gratification — a  fierce  fight  and  a  certain  victory? 
God  knows  and  knows  better,  perhaps,  than  the  Devil  that 
Roger's  ancestors  would  have  been  quick  to  credit  with  the 
exclusive  knowledge. 

Civilisation  and  her  mysterious  daughter  whom  we  call 
nowadays  Culture  have  tried  to  teach  us  that  golf  and  lawn 
tennis  and,  for  the  lustiest,  fencing,  or  the  control  of  a  spirited 
horse,  must  best  translate  in  your  house-broken  citizen  of 

[24] 


FATE    GOES   A-FISHING 


forty  the  heat  that  surged  up  in  Roger  then ;  but  to  most  of  us 
it  becomes  once  or  twice  apparent  in  our  sidewalk  career, 
our  delicate  journey  from  mahogany  sideboards  to  ma- 
hogany beds,  that  this  teaching  is  idiotic  to  the  last  degree, 
however  strictly  the  police  have  enforced  it;  and  we  know 
that  only  the  man  that  forged  with  clenched  teeth  after 
Atalanta,  tenderly  hungry  for  all  her  uncaptured  whiteness, 
brutally  driving  the  pace  till  her  heart  burst  in  her  side  if 
need  be,  tasted  the  supremest  ecstasy  of  the  fighting  that 
lifts  us  that  one  tantalising  step  above  the  savage — the  fight 
for  joy.  I  am  convinced  that  it  is  after  some  one  of  those 
red  glimpses  that  a  certain  proportion  of  us  every  year  of  the 
world's  life  throws  his  chest  weights  out  of  window, 
settles  his  tailor's  bill,  and  is  off  for  Africa  or  Greenland  with 
a  hatchet  and  a  cartridge  belt.  We  become  thus  inscrutable 
to  our  maiden  aunts  and  it  may  be  to  ourselves,  a  little, 
when  we  discover  that  it  was  not  quite  exactly  the  struggle 
for  food  and  shelter,  the  fight  against  the  cliffs  and  elements 
and  animals  that  we  went  out  into  the  wilderness  to  seek. 
But  we  are  in  any  event  less  unreasonable  than  those  belated 
and  blindfolded  ones  among  us  who  translate  the  implacable 
desire  too  literally  and  lose  its  meaning  utterly  in  the 
garbled  text  of  the  midnight  city  streets. 

Roger  literally  fell  upon  this  vixenish,  beautiful  creature 
with  the  perfectly  definite  intention  of  shaking  her  until  her 
teeth  chattered  in  her  head,  but  he  did  not  achieve  this 
result,  for  the  reason  that  Margarita  fought  like  a  demon; 
fought,  her  hands  being  pinioned,  with  her  supple  back, 
her  strong  shoulders  and  her  rigid  knees.  It  was  like 
struggling  with  a  malicious  little  girl  of  six  and  a  stubborn 
boy  of  sixteen  rolled  into  one.  She  did  not  cry  nor  chatter 
but  set  her  teeth  and  directed  all  her  superb  energy  to  the 
actual  business  in  hand.  His  idea  of  grasping  both  her  wrists 
with  one  hand  was  out  of  the  question;  for  two  or  three 
delicious,  angry  moments  he  essayed  this,  enraged,  amused, 
breathing  hard,  while  she  strained  and  bent  with  all  her 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


magnificent  youth  against  him,  and  the  years  and  the  rust 
of  the  years  fell  off  from  him  in  the  heartsome  contest,  with 
victory  certain  but  not  easy,  her  submission  sure — but  not 
yet!  Some  subterranean  spring  welled  up  in  him,  some 
trickle  from  the  everlasting  caves  that  will  only  be  com- 
pletely levelled  over  when  humanity,  decadent,  crumbles 
into  them  and  returns  to  the  primal  clay,  and  he  knew  that 
for  these  few  gleaming  seconds,  snatched  from  the  rest  of 
the  greyish  hours  and  weeks,  he  had  been  made  and  destined. 

You  will,  of  course,  perceive  that  all  this  is  what  I  felt 
when  my  little  turn  came;  Roger  never  talked  this  sort  of 
thing  in  his  life.  But  unless  I  am  vastly  mistaken,  he  lived 
it,  in  those  galloping  quick-breathed  minutes,  before  he 
pinioned  Margarita,  her  hands  behind  her  back,  with  one 
arm,  and  held  her  fast  about  the  knees  with  the  other. 
Crushed  against  him,  dead  weight,  she  lay,  her  unconquered 
eyes  sea  black  now,  flat  against  his,  her  heart  labouring 
heavily,  under  his  relentless,  banding  arm. 

"Will  you  be  good,  you  absurd  little  wildcat?  Will 
you?"  he  demanded,  his  voice  shaking  with  laughter  and 
truimph.  (And  you  need  not  be  too  ready,  O  exponent  of 
tolerant  hearthstone  chivalry,  to  smile  at  the  triumph! 
V — 1,  whom  Margarita  detested,  practically  refused  to  sing 
Siegfried  to  her  Brunhilde,  because,  he  said,  she  made  him 
ridiculous  with  her  virginal  strugglings  and  got  him  out  of 
breath  besides !  And  he  could  lift  and  carry  Lilli  Lehmann.) 

"Will  you?"  Roger  repeated,  not  loosening  his  hold  of 
her,  for  he  felt  her  muscles  tense  as  wire  under  the  soft 
flesh. 

"No,  I  will  not,"  said  Margarita.  "I  hate  you.  I  will 
die  before  I  will  obey  you." 

And  at  this  foolish  and  melodramatic  remark,  Roger 
Bradley,  descendant  of  all  the  Puritans  (Whistler  used  to 
say  that  he  was  by  Plymouth  Rock  out  of  Mayflower — alas, 
dear  Jimmie!),  a  respected  bachelor,  of  exemplary  habits 
and  no  entanglements,  deliberately,  and  with  a  happy, 
[26] 


FATE   GOES   A-FISHING 


heartfelt  oath,  kissed  Margarita,  at  length  and  somewhat 
brutally,  I  fear,  in  a  hired  four-wheeler  at  the  junction  of 
Thirty-fourth  Street  and  Fifth  Avenue.  And  of  his  sensa- 
tions at  this  point  I  cannot  speak,  because  I  never  had  them. 
I  never  kissed  Margarita  but  once  and  then  very  quickly, 
because  I  was  convinced  that  upon  my  subsequent  speed 
depended  my  ever  seeing  her  alive  again.  And  she  did 
not  struggle  at  all,  because,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  per- 
fectly immaterial  to  her  whether  I  kissed  her  or  not.  But 
that  was  not  the  case  with  Roger's  kiss. 


[27] 


CHAPTER   III 

AS   THE   TWIGS   WERE   BENT 

THE  day  that  Roger  and  I  first  met  is  as  clear  in  my  mind 
as  if,  in  the  current  phrase,  it  were  but  yesterday.  I  was 
a  slender  little  lad  of  ten  and  he  a  great,  strapping  fifteen- 
year-old.  I  was  trundling  my  hoop  about  the  part  of  the 
schoolyard  usually  given  over  to  the  little  fellows,  as  blue 
as  indigo,  homesick  for  my mammy-O,  and  secretly  ashamed 
of  the  French  schoolboy  cape  I  had  worn  at  Vevay,  which 
all  my  mates  derided,  but  she  in  her  woman's  thrift  had 
thought  too  good  to  throw  aside.  No  doubt  she  was  right, 
but  oh,  what  you  make  us  suffer,  you  gentle  widow  mothers! 
You  would  give  us  the  hearts  out  of  your  fervent  bodies 
for  footballs,  you  will  nurse  at  our  sick  beds  without  rest 
and  deny  yourself  the  comforts  of  existence,  if  need  be,  to 
start  us  fairly  in  the  world  with  a  gentle  training  and  schools 
of  the  best,  but  you  cannot  comprehend  that  we  would  far 
rather  go  without  a  meal  in  private  than  be  the  mock  of 
our  schoolmates  in  public.  I  would  have  lived  on  bread  and 
water  for  a  week  could  I  have  buried  that  French  cloak  at 
the  end  of  it. 

The  very  sport  in  which  I  was  engaged  was  not  in  use 
among  the  other  boys  of  my  age,  but  inconsistently  enough, 
though  I  was  eager  to  conform  as  far  as  the  cloak  was 
concerned,  wild  horses  could  not  have  dragged  me  from  my 
wooden  hoop,  and  I  trundled  it  sulkily  up  and  down  the 
flagged  paths. 

To  me,  an  odd  figure  enough  to  young  American  eyes, 
advanced  and  spoke  Monsieur  Duval,  in  whose  regard  I  was 
the  most  homelike  and  natural  figure  in  the  landscape,  I 
[28] 


AS   THE   TWIGS   WERE    BENT 

have  no  doubt.  It  was  with  a  real  kindness  that  he  called 
out  some  cheery  nothing,  some  "Ah!  Ah!  (a  va  bien — vous 
vous  armisez,  n'est-ce  pas?"  or  such  like,  and  with  an  equal 
and  unconscious  amiability  that  I  replied  in  like  manner. 
The  language  was  perfectly  familiar  to  me,  especially  in  its 
present  routine  connection,  and  I  took  off  my  cap  instinc- 
tively, as  I  should  have  done  at  Vevay,  and  probably  said 
something  about  my  being  joliment  bien  armise,  which  was 
purely  perfunctory  of  course,  because  I  wasn't.  He  passed 
by  and  I  trundled  my  hoop  along,  but  only  during  the  space 
of  time  required  for  his  complete  exit  from  the  scene,  for 
at  the  precise  ending  of  that  time  I  was  violently  set  upon 
by  three  or  four  boys,  dragged,  protesting  and  frightened, 
to  a  private  retreat,  and  there  informed  that  my  nauseating 
familiarity  with  the  French  language  and  consequent 
"showing  off"  therein  must  cease  incontinently,  and  that 
the  event  of  my  refusing  this  ultimatum  would  be  a  perilous 
and  not  easily  forgotten  one  for  a  little  sneak  like  me. 

Now  our  school  at  Vevay  had  been  entirely  under  the 
influence,  in  its  secret  and  really  important  life,  of  a  circle 
of  English  boys,  cruelly  banished  from  their  natural  edu- 
cational facilities,  who  made  up  for  this  banishment  by  a 
careful  and  systematic  insistence  on  as  much  as  possible 
of  their  native  school  atmosphere,  and  we  little  ones  were 
bred  up  in  this  very  strictly.  The  word  "sneak"  was  too 
much  for  me,  and  I  flew  at  the  offender,  which  was,  I  sup- 
pose, what  he  wanted. 

It  would  have  gone  hard  indeed  with  me  had  not  a  tall, 
broad-shouldered  boy,  glorious  in  a  jersey  enriched  with  the 
initials  of  the  school,  swung  suddenly  upon  us  and  twitched 
me  out  of  the  bandit  crew  by  my  coat  collar. 

"What's  all  this?  What  are  you  up  to?"  he  asked 
briskly. 

He  had  a  baseball  bat  with  him — I  regarded  baseball 
at  that  time  as  a  sort  of  cricket  gone  mad — and  a  round 
visored  cap  on  his  thick  fair  hair.  His  chin  was  deeply 

[29] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


cleft,  his  eyes  grey-blue,  his  skin  very  fair.  To  me  he  was 
an  upper-form  demi-god  and  I,  seeing  nothing  odd  in  his 
actions,  for  he  was  what  I  called  the  cock  of  the  school, 
voiced  my  trembling  plea. 

"If  you  please,  sir,"  I  began,  whereat  he  blushed  and  my 
captors  burst  into  derisive  shouts  and  capered  around  us, 
and  thoroughly  embarrassed  and  frightened,  I  began  to 
snivel  into  my  elbow. 

"We  don't  talk  that  way  over  here,"  he  admonished  me 
shortly,  "go  ahead  without  any  sirs,  can't  you?" 

Well,  it  all  came  out  finally  and  he  settled  it  very  easily, 
though  not,  I  am  sure,  in  the  way  he  had  at  first  intended  to. 
I  saw  his  fingers  tighten  around  the  bat,  I  saw  him  warily 
measuring  his  chances  against  four  twelve-year-olds,  and 
realised  suddenly  that  this  was  not  Albion  the  long  desired 
of  some  of  us  at  Vevay,  but  free  America,  and  that  this  was 
not  really  the  head  boy  nor  had  he  any  rights  in  particular 
beyond  any  knight's  who  chooses  to  ride  a-rescuing.  Never- 
theless I  was  and  am  sure  he  could  have  punished  them  all 
and  that  without  the  bat.  Suddenly,  however,  a  reflective 
look  came  across  his  face,  he  stroked  the  cleft  in  his  chin 
thoughtfully — a  trick  he  never  lost — and  said  in  a  quiet, 
convincing  tone: 

"You  always  were  an  awful  fool,  Judson,"  this  to  the 
bully.  "If  you  had  the  sense  of  a  cat  you  wouldn't  haze 
this  little  fellow  for  what  he  can't  help,  but  instead  you'd 
use  him.  Why,  if  7  had  him  in  my  French  class,  I'd  make 
him  do  most  of  the  reciting  and  keep  old  Duval  busy — he'd 
never  see  through  it.  Think  it  over.  Come  on,  shaver!" 

This  he  said  to  me  and  I  trotted  off  his  slave — his  fag, 
I  hoped,  but  vainly,  as  it  proved. 

I  tell  this  at  length  because  it  illustrates  Roger's  character 
so  perfectly.  Not  that  he  couldn't  fight,  but  he  preferred  not 
if  a  little  practical  arbitration  could  be  made  to  do  the  work 
of  battle.  And  yet  he  was  rather  tactless  in  a  social  sense: 
this  was  his  professional  attitude,  you  understand. 

[30] 


AS   THE   TWIGS   WERE    BENT 

"You're  the  little  French  boy,"  he  said,  as  I  followed  him. 
"What's  your  name,  anyhow?  I'm  Roger  Bradley." 
As  if  I  didn't  know! 

"If  you  pi — I  mean,  mine  is  Winfred  Jerrolds,"  I  said 
shyly. 

"You're  not  really  French,  are  you?" 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  been  proud  of  my  American 
blood.  I  told  him  about  my  American  mother  and  my 
English  father,  his  tragic  death  and  her  return  to  her  own 
country  after  twelve  years  of  absence;  of  the  acquisition 
of  my  wonderful  French,  which  was  only  the  work  of  two 
years,  of  my  violin  lessons,  strictly  concealed  from  the 
other  boys,  of  my  old  Swiss  nurse,  now  our  cook,  of  my 
French  poodle,  and  a  score  of  other  secrets  never  breathed 
before. 

He  was  deeply  interested,  inquired  the  brave  details  of 
my  father's  death,  shook  hands  heartily,  and  expressed  his 
intention  of  inviting  me  to  his  home  some  time  during  the 
vacation.  We  parted  the  best  of  friends  and  shall  be,  I 
trust,  till  we  part  for  good  and  all. 

I  did  not  visit  him,  however,  that  vacation.  Some  slight 
injury,  received  during  a  game  of  his  favourite  baseball, 
affected  his  eyes,  and  for  six  months  he  could  not  use  them 
at  all,  so  he  did  not  return  to  school  until  the  next  autumn. 
WThen  we  met  again  it  was  on  a  different  basis,  for  I  had  made 
good  use  of  my  time  and  had  mounted  rapidly  in  my  classes. 
Whether  it  was  because  I  kept  the  habit  of  vacation  study 
(the  entire  lazy  freedom  of  American  school  children  during 
the  long  vacation  was  very  shocking  to  my  mother)  or 
whether  my  habit  of  application  and  concentration,  the  fact 
that  I  had  really  been  taught  to  study,  not  merely  turned 
loose  with  a  book  in  my  hands,  gave  me  an  advantage  over 
my  mates,  I  do  not  know,  but  when  Roger  came  back  he 
found  me  only  three  classes  below  him  and  graduated  from 
the  little  boys'  playground  forever. 

That  summer  he  took  me  home  with  him  and  I  gazed 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


with  deep  respect  upon  the  portraits  of  his  ancestors,  fading 
against  the  dark  wainscots  of  the  respectable  Boston  man- 
sion; played  my  violin  obediently  for  his  mother,  who  pre- 
sented me  with  a  volume  of  Emerson's  essays;  hung  upon 
the  lips  of  his  soldier-uncle,  one-armed  since  Gettysburg, 
who  in  his  turn  listened  gravely  to  my  tales  of  my  father; 
and  sedulously  avoided  his  cousin  Sarah,  who,  even  then, 
a  fresh-faced  girl  of  eighteen,  had  begun  to  feel  those 
responsibilities  toward  the  human  race  which  have  since 
so  consistently  distinguished  her,  and  pursued  me  with 
hideous  bits  of  paper  bearing  a  mocking  resemblance  to 
blank  cheques,  which  she  called  "pledges,"  by  means  of 
which  she  urged  me  to  begin  in  the  days  of  my  ycuth  the 
practice  of  total  abstinence,  with  the  result  that  she  has  be- 
come hopelessly  involved  in  my  mind  with  that  revolting 
practice.  They  were  Unitarians,  a  doctrine  then  fashionable 
in  those  regions,  oddly  enough,  and  greatly  to  the  puzzle- 
ment of  my  dear  mother,  who  could  not  understand  how 
dissent  could  ever  be  so,  and  who  was  firmly  convinced  that 
'•'your  Bradleys"  as  she  called  them,  were  addicted  to  rant- 
ing prayers  on  all  occasions.  In  vain  I  described  to  her  old 
Madam  Bradley  with  a  scrap  of  frosty  lace  on  her  white 
hair,  a  terrifying  ear  trumpet  and  the  manners  of  a  countess; 
in  vain  I  assured  her  that  Uncle  Winthrop  would  no  more 
be  guilty  of  a  ranting  prayer  than  my  father  would  have 
been:  she  shook  her  head  gently  and  urged  me  to  recall 
my  confirmation  vows! 

My  dear  mother!  To  write  of  her  even  so  slightly  is  to 
see  her  in  her  neat  black  dress  with  its  web-like  bands  of 
lawn  at  neck  and  wrists,  directing  old  Jeanne,  bonne-a-tout- 
faire  now  in  our  small  establishment,  watering  our  window 
geraniums  from  a  quaint,  long-nosed  copper  pot,  drilling 
Mr.  Boffin,  the  poodle,  in  his  manners,  and,  when  the  early 
dinner  was  out  of  the  way,  sitting  in  all  simplicity  with  Jeanne 
at  work  upon  my  shirts — the  only  example  of  really  demo- 
cratic institutions  that  I  ever  saw  in  this  irascible  democracy. 


AS   THE   TWIGS   WERE    BENT 

I  should  like  to  have  seen  Madam  Bradley  sewing  with  the 
cook  and  innocently  gossiping  over  the  old  days! 

Well,  well,  even  to  have  invented  so  inhumanly  possible 
an  ideal  as  democracy  is  a  great  feat  and  a  wonderful  ex- 
hibition of  the  powers  of  our  minds  on  this  planet,  I  suppose. 
And  I  am  not  sure  that  it  is  a  greater  proof  of  sincerity  to 
practice  it  while  denying  it  in  theory,  as  they  do  in  the  old 
countries,  than  to  reverse  the  process  in  the  new  ones. 
Americans  are  such  incurable  idealists!  And  if  Plato  is 
right  and  the  idea  is  the  really  important  part  of  the  matter, 
then  the  idea  of  seventy — or  is  it  eighty,  now? — millions 
of  equal  lords  of  creation  is  really  more  to  the  point  than  the 
fact  that  they  don't  exist.  But  why,  oh  why,  must  equality 
produce  such  bad  manners?  They  must  have  been  very 
bad  to  make  such  an  impression  upon  a  little  lad  of  ten. 
And  who  can  explain  its  extraordinary  effect  upon  the  voice  ? 
Why  does  it  kill  all  modulation,  all  tone-color,  all  delicate 
shades  of  thought  and  passion  equally,  and  resolve  that 
great  gift,  which  I  sometimes  think  the  greatest  difference 
between  me  and  my  dog,  into  a  toneless,  mumble-chopped 
grunting  ? 

That  was  the  glory  of  Margarita's  voice:  if  she  but  in- 
formed you  that  she  would  like  more  bread,  your  ear 
relished  that  series  of  unimportant  syllables  precisely  as  the 
tongue  relishes  a  satisfying  dish;  with  her,  pleading,  com- 
manding, refusing,  admiring,  were  four  perfectly  different 
tonal  processes;  a  blind  man,  an  Eskimo  or  a  South  Sea 
Islander  would  have  understood  that  voice  perfectly.  And 
even  now,  merely  a  shadow  of  what  it  once  was,  it  is  a  lesson 
to  all  about  her. 

When  Roger  was  seventeen  and  I  but  twelve  he  lost  two 
years  out  of  his  school-life,  and  this  brought  us  closer  to- 
gether ultimately,  as  will  be  seen.  In  some  more  than 
usually  violent  game  of  his  favourite  baseball  at  this  time  he 
managed  to  fall  so  heavily  on  his  chest  as  slightly  to  bruise 
the  lung,  and  a  teasing  cough  that  resulted  from  this  ter- 

[33] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


rifled  his  mother,  over  whom,  like  so  many  of  her  pure- 
blooded  countrywomen,  the  White  Scourge  hung  threaten- 
ingly, never  very  far  away.  Good  luck  sent  them  just  then 
an  invitation  from  a  distant  cousin,  skipper  of  a  large 
schooner  that  plied  in  Southern  waters,  and  she  thankfully 
sent  Roger  off  for  a  long  cruise  with  him.  It  was  a  fine 
experience,  and  oh,  how  bitterly  I  longed  to  share  it,  as  the 
skipper  cousin  urged  me  to  do!  But  I  was  the  only  son  of 
my  mother  and  she  a  widow,  and  so  I  swallowed  my  grief 
and  contented  myself  with  writing.  It  had  long  been  a 
great  grief  to  me  that  I  must  follow  him  so  far  behind  at 
college — he  had  of  course  decided  me  on  his  own  uni- 
versity— and  one  of  my  contentments  at  this  period  was  the 
hope  of  winning  ahead  a  year  and  leaving  only  two  between 
us.  This  would  enable  me  to  enter  Yale  when  he  was  but 
half  way  in  his  course,  which  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  accom- 
plished, to  my  mother's  great  pride.  She  liked  Roger,  but 
always  found  him  a  little  heavy  and  slow,  and  secretly 
cherished  my  greater  facility  and  more  rapid  mental  develop- 
ment with  a  fond  and  wholly  female  short-sightedness. 

Our  correspondence  was  very  characteristic  at  this  time: 
I  have  specimens  of  both  sides  of  it.  My  letters  are  long 
and  detailed,  almost  school-diaries.  Roger's  are  few,  short 
and  immensely  impressive.  He  had  a  straightforward, 
utterly  unimaginative  style  that  strikes  the  heart  like  Defoe's. 
He  gave  the  strongest  sense  of  great  events  always  happen- 
ing, of  high  seas,  bright,  strange  coasts,  racy,  vital  talk — 
and  all  in  few,  short  words. 

"We  have  been  rolling  hard  for  three  days  now,"  he  says 
in  one  letter,  "and  the  ship's  dog  died  of  colic,  which  is 
about  the  worst  sign  there  is,  they  say.  It  may  be  we  shall 
be  wrecked.  I  wish  you  were  here,  Jerry,  you  would  enjoy 
it.  They  have  stopped  trying  to  coddle  me  now  and  I  live 
rough,  like  the  rest.  The  food  is  not  so  very  good,  but  we 
all  eat  hard.  I  hardly  ever  cough  at  all  now.  The  captain 
says  I  am  as  handy  as  the  next  man." 

[34] 


AS   THE   TWIGS   WERE    BENT 

The  oldest  of  four,  he  had  been  looked  up  to  and  respected 
from  the  nursery.  A  powerful  influence  at  school,  a  prince 
regent  at  home,  wealthy  in  his  own  right,  he  stood  in  some 
danger  of  being  spoiled,  I  suppose.  But  the  bluff  skipper 
cousin,  representative  of  that  strange  New  England  Wander- 
lust, so  little  exploited  in  the  anemic  fiction  that  so  ridicu- 
lously caricatures  New  England  life,  stamped  Roger  at  this 
most  impressionable  age  with  the  clean,  downright  sim- 
plicity, the  manly  humility  so  signally  characteristic  of  men 
who  must  always  be  ready  to  perish  in  the  elements;  the 
ability  to  hold  his  tongue  and  wait.  Few  families  really 
rooted  in  that  Old  England  that  made  the  New  but  can 
count  in  some  generation  their  skipper  cousin;  in  these  the 
whitecaps,  the  tall  masts,  the  spices  and  hot  nights,  the 
scarlet  tropics  and  the  dusky,  startled  natives  tip  with  flame 
the  quiet  chronicles  of  the  sisters  left  at  home;  and  gorgeous 
peacock  fans,  rosy,  enamelled  shells,  strings  of  sandalwood 
beads,  riotous,  bloomy  embroideries  and  supple  folds  of 
exotic  muslin  weave  their  scents  and  suggestions  through 
the  sober-coloured  stuff  of  everyday.  Indeed,  New 
England  as  I  have  known  her,  both  as  a  child  in  her  chief 
and  representative  city,  and  as  a  man  in  her  farthest,  least- 
spoiled  hamlets  has  always  seemed  to  me  far  more  com- 
plicated and  mysterious,  far  more  vital  and  suggestive  than 
her  too-exclusively-spinsterly  chroniclers  can  comprehend. 

I  look  to  see  the  country  turn  back  to  New  England,  not 
only  with  historic  pride,  but  with  a  rich  appreciation  of  its 
artistic  mother-land — not  mistaking  her  for  its  bleak  and 
apprehensive  maiden  aunt! 

I  am  far  from  her  now,  that  old  breeding  ground  of  great, 
incisive  sons,  that  nest  of  passions  so  strong  that  only  a  grip 
of  granite — like  her  sea  line — could  master  them  (do  you 
fancy,  O  languorous,  faded  South,  do  you  bellow,  O  strident, 
bustling  West,  that  because  she  neither  sighed  them  nor 
trumpeted  them,  she  had  no  passions?  Allez,  allez!)  but 
I  can  close  my  eyes  at  any  moment  and  smell  the  challenge 

[35] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


of  her  Atlantic  winds  here  on  the  Mediterranean  or  feel  the 
heady  languor  of  her  miraculous  "Indian  Summer"  there 
in  a  London  drizzle.  It  is  strange  that  I,  who  have  said 
many  unhandsome  things  of  her  country  as  a  whole,  should 
thus  rush  into  apologia  for  my  mother's  birthplace.  And 
yet  to  think  of  never  having  known  Margarita! 

But  of  course  I  should  have  met  her.  She  would  have 
come  to  me  walking  lightly  out  of  the  dim  Algerian  evening 
or  bumped  into  me  some  morning  in  Piccadilly  or  peered 
curiously  through  my  leaded  pane  at  Oxford,  whither  I  should 
undoubtedly  have  returned,  one  day,  to  muse  away  my  mid- 
dle age.  I  idled  for  a  happy  year  there,  twenty-odd  years  ago, 
while  Roger  was  grinding  away  at  the  fantastic  matter  he 
called  the  Law,  and  liked  it  well.  But  fate  had  not  decreed 
me  for  a  conventional  Englishman,  which  I  should  doubtless 
have  been,  for  as  a  boy  I  was  malleable  to  a  degree,  but  had 
reserved  me  instead  for  the  ends  of  the  earth — and  Mar- 
garita. 


[36] 


CHAPTER   IV 

FATE  REELS  IN 

THERE  is  nothing  more  certain  than  that  the  bare  facts 
of  life  are  misleading  in  the  extreme.  This  is  doubtless 
nature's  reason  for  concealing  the  human  skeleton;  it  is 
undeniably  necessary,  but  not  many  of  us  take  it  into  daily 
consideration,  and  nobody  but  a  few  negligible  anthro- 
pologists would  dream  of  bringing  it  forward  as  proof  of 
anything  in  particular.  And  yet  people  who  are  fond  of 
describing  themselves  as  practical  persistently  fold  their 
hands  over  their  abdomens,  shrug  their  shoulders  and 
reiterate  monotonously:  "But,  my  dear  fellow,  there  are 
the  facts!  It  is  only  necessary  to  consider  the  facts  of  the 
case!"  .or,  "I'm  sorry,  but  I'm  afraid  the  bare  facts  are 
against  you!"  I  suppose  that  is  why  they  are  so  often  called 
bare,  because  so  little  of  the  important,  informing  or  attrac- 
tive is  draped  around  them. 

Consider  for  instance,  the  bare  facts  of  Roger's  adventure. 
Here  is  a  man  who,  meeting  a  perfectly  unknown  and 
singularly  beautiful  young  woman  in  a  questionable  locality 
at  dusk,  enters  into  conversation  with  her,  takes  her  to  a 
French  restaurant  for  dinner,  then  finds  himself  embroiled 
in  a  disgraceful  altercation  in  which  wine-glasses  are  thrown 
and  chairs  waved,  and  finally  escapes  with  her  in  a  closed 
carriage,  which  soon  becomes  the  scene  of  a  violent  struggle 
culminating  in  a  ferocious  kiss!  The  case  is  really  too  clear; 
it  is  almost  too  conventional  for  an  art  student  of  any  ini- 
tiative and  originality.  Anyone  possessed  of  the  slightest 
acquaintance  with  fiction  or  the  daily  papers  could  tell  you 

[37] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


instantly  that  here  were  a  dissipated  clubman  and  a  too- 
unfortunately-stereotyped  creature  who  not  only  required 
no  description  but  were  best,  in  the  interests  of  morality, 
undescribed.  And  yet  Roger  was  emphatically  not  dis- 
sipated, nor  even  a  clubman,  in  the  sense  in  which  the  word 
appears  to  be  used  in  America,  and  Margarita  was  not  in 
the  least  unfortunate  and  so  far  from  stereotyped  that  she 
pressed  the  unusual  hard  toward  the  utterly  unique. 

"Well,  well,"  I  hear  the  practical  man,  "but  this  is  a 
case  in  one — five — ten  thousand,  surely!  We  all  know — " 

My  good  man,  there  is  absolutely  nothing  we  all  know 
except  that  we  shall  certainly  die,  one  day,  and  from  this 
one  bare  fact  more  utterly  contradictory  inferences  have 
been  drawn  than  I  can  afford  ink  to  enumerate.  Nothing 
could  be  more  certain  than  this  bare  fact,  and  can  you  show 
me  anything  more  productive  of  human  uncertainty?  I 
trow  not.  What  do  you  know  of  the  private  life  of  the  man 
in  the  next  house  ?  Have  you  a  friend  who  cannot  tell  you 
from  one  to  three  melodramatic  tales,  lying  quite  within 
his  experience,  at  which  you  will  gasp,  "Why,  it's  as  exciting 
as  a  novel!"  The  best  novels  never  get  into  print  and  the 
most  blood-curdling,  goose-pimpling  dramas  are  played  by 
the  boxholders.  The  longer  I  live  the  more  firmly  am  I 
convinced  that  the  really  quiet  life  is  relatively  rare. 

To  Roger,  indeed,  after  his  climax  in  the  four-wheeler, 
it  seemed  impossible  that  life  could  ever  again  be  quiet. 
If  I  have  not  impressed  you  with  the  idea  that  he  was  a  decent 
sort  of  man,  I  have  wasted  a  whole  chapter  and  demon- 
strated the  folly  of  attempting  authorship  at  my  age,  and  you 
will  be  but  poorly  prepared  to  learn  that  when  the  cabby 
knocked  at  the  glass,  after  heaven  knows  how  many  minutes 
of  interested  observation,  Roger  discovered  his  identity 
again — and  loathed  it.  His  conduct  appeared  to  him 
indescribably  beneath  contempt,  his  situation  deplorable. 
Margarita,  sobbing  quietly  in  her  corner,  seemed  unlikely 
to  raise  either  his  spirits  or  his  estimate  of  himself. 

[38] 


FATE   REELS   IN 


Opening  the  door  of  the  carriage  he  repeated  his  directions 
to  the  too-confidential  driver  and  spoke  stiffly  to  his  com- 
panion. 

"I  will  not  attempt  to  excuse  myself  to  you,"  he  said, 
"for  it  would  be  pointless.  If  you  can  believe  me,  I  will 
try  my  best  to  help  you  to  your  friends.  Can  you  not  tell 
me  the  name  of  one?" 

"What  is  your  name?"  she  asked,  her  voice  only  a  little 
shaken  from  her  sobs,  which  had  ceased  as  soon  as  he  began 
to  speak. 

"My  name  is  Roger  Bradley,"  he  answered  promptly. 

"Then  that  is  the  name  of  my  first  friend,"  said  Mar- 
garita Josephine  Dolores,  "but  I  hope  to  find  others." 

Roger's  revulsion  of  feeling  was  so  great,  his  state  of 
mind  so  perturbed  and  confounded  that  he  crushed  them 
into  a  short,  husky  laugh.  Had  he  been  the  hero  of  a  novel 
he  would  undoubtedly  have  launched  into  a  bitter  speech, 
but  he  did  not. 

"Others  like  me?"  he  said  briefly,  and  all  the  bitterness 
of  the  novel-hero  was  there  if  Margarita  had  been  able  to 
read  it.  But  she  only  smiled,  a  little  uncertainly,  it  is  true, 
and  replied: 

"Yes,  I  should  like  them  like  you — only  not  so  strong," 
she  added  softly,  with  a  shy  glance  at  her  wrists. 

It  has  been  quite  unnecessary  for  me  to  consult  letters  or 
diaries  to  give  me  a  very  clear  insight  into  Roger's  feelings 
at  this  point,  for  I  myself  have  experienced  them.  It  was 
when  I  took  Margarita  out  in  a  rowboat  and  she  began  to 
rock  herself  in  it. 

"Don't  do  that,  Margarita!"  I  cried.  "That  is  an 
idiotic  trick." 

She  continued  to  rock  it. 

"Do  you  hear  me,  Margarita?"  I  demanded,  tapping 
her  foot  with  some  irritation,  for  she  really  was  irritating. 
In  fact  she  completely  upset  the  theory  that  tact  and  adapt- 
ability constitute  her  sex's  chief  charm. 

[39] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


"Of  course  I  hear  you.  If  you  kick  me,  I  shall  only  rock 
the  harder,"  she  answered  composedly — and  did  so. 

Shipping  the  oars  carefully  I  arose,  advanced  upon  Mar- 
garita and  boxed  her  ears  with  determination.  I  should 
have  done  it  in  mid-ocean.  I  doubt  if  sharks  in  sight  would 
have  deterred  me.  As  I  was  boxing  her  ears — beautiful, 
strong  ones,  they  were,  not  tiny,  selfish,  high-set  bits  of 
porcelain:  W — r  M — 1  (who  would  have  been  Sir  W — r 
M — 1  in  England  to-day)  said  of  Margarita's  ears  that  they 
were  set  convincingly  low  and  that  he  looked  to  her  to 
demonstrate  one  of  his  favourite  tests  of  longevity — in  the 
very  act  of  this  boxing.  I  repeat,  I  was  cruelly  bitten  in  the 
wrists,  and,  snorting  with  rage,  pure,  primitive,  unchivalrous 
rage,  I  fell  upon  that  shameless  little  Pagan  and  shook  her 
violently,  till  the  teeth  rattled  in  her  head.  Over  we  went, 
the  pair  of  us,  struggling  like  demons,  into  the  chilly,  rational 
water,  and  as  Margarita,  like  so  many  people  who  live  by 
the  sea,  was  utterly  ignorant  of  the  art  of  swimming  and  like 
so  many  people  of  her  temperament,  violently  averse  to  the 
sudden  shock  of  cold  water,  it  was  a  subdued  and  dripping 
young  woman  that  I  dragged  to  the  overturned  boat  and 
ultimately  towed  to  shore.  I  worked  hard  to  get  her  there 
and  had  no  time  for  remorse,  but  as  I  hurried  her  up  the 
beach  it  flooded  over  me. 

"What  must  you  think  of  me?"  I  asked  her  through 
chattering  teeth.  "You  will  not  care  to  meet  any  more  of 
Roger's  friends,  I  fear." 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  returned  sweetly,  looking  incompre- 
hensibly lovely — ah,  me,  that  long,  smooth  line  of  her  hip, 
that  round,  sleek  head,  shining  like  bronze  in  the  sun!  I 
can  see  it  now — "Oh,  yes,  I  hope  he  has  many  more  like 
you,  Jerry,  but  not  so  strong — you  hurt  my  arm!" 

It  is  useless  to  ask  me  why  that  should  have  endeared  her 

a  hundred  times  over  to  me,  who  would  have  given  a  year  of 

my  life  to  kiss  her  but  might  not.     It  did  thus  endear  her, 

however,  and  so  I  know  what  hot,  foolish  hope  flooded  Roger 

[40] 


FATE   REELS   IN 


off  his  footholds  of  conventions  and  convictions  and  floated 
him  away  in  a  warm,  alluring  sea,  where  the  tropic  palm- 
isles  of  Fata  Morgana  were  the  only  shores.  I,  too,  caught 
a  glimpse  of  those  shores;  the  warmth  of  that  sea  was  only 
the  blood  pounding  through  my  veins,  and  I  knew  it,  but 
I  shut  my  eyes  and  let  the  waves  lap  at  me  a  moment. 
Roger,  lucky  dog,  did  not  know  and  did  not  need  to  know 
what  was  happening  to  him,  and  it  was  not  for  a  moment, 
but  forever,  as  far  as  he  knew,  that  he  slipped  into  the 
current  and  drifted  with  it. 

It  was  very  characteristic  of  him  that  his  next  words  had, 
apparently,  no  bearing  whatever  on  his  state  of  mind. 

"We  are  now,"  he  said,  "at  the  station.  If  you  will  tell 
me  the  name  of  the  town  from  which  you  came  here,  I  will 
see  that  you  get  back  there.  Believe  me,  it  is  the  only 
possible  thing  to  do.  You  cannot  stay  here.  Now,  where 
did  you  come  from?" 

It  took  some  few  minutes  to  convince  Roger  that  the  girl 
literally  did  not  know  the  name  of  the  station  at  which  she 
had  purchased  her  ticket  to  New  York.  She  knew  she  had 
travelled  all  day,  and  that  was  all.  She  had  slipped  out 
from  her  home  at  dawn  or  before,  left  the  mysterious  Hester 
Prynne  asleep,  walked  five  miles  (Hester  had  said  it  was  five 
miles  to  the  railroad)  to  a  little  town  where  a  girl  had  sold 
her  the  clothes  she  had  on  for  one  of  her  banknotes  and 
advised  her  to  go  to  New  York  if  she  wished  to  see  the  world, 
"which  was  what  I  did  wish,"  said  Margarita. 

A  young  man  behind  some  bars  had  given  her  the  ticket 
and  some  small  money  back  from  another  note  and  a  kind 
old  man  with  white  hair  and  a  tall  black  hat  had  sat  beside 
her  after  a  while,  and  pressed  so  hard  against  her  that  she 
had  no  room  for  her  knees.  She  had  told  him  of  this  incon- 
venience, but  to  no  avail.  He  had  put  his  arm  about  her 
shoulders  and  asked  her  why  she  did  not  change  her  plans 
and  come  to  Boston.  Then  she  had  told  him  that  though 
she  wanted  friends  she  did  not  care  for  such  old  ones,  and 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


when  he  still  pressed  against  her  she  had  asked  the  man 
with  the  shining  buttons  who  looked  at  her  ticket  if  he  would 
not  remove  the  old  man,  because  she  did  not  like  to  sit  so 
close  to  anyone,  and  she  was  sure  the  old  man  was  sitting 
closer  all  the  time.  Then  he  of  the  buttons  took  her  some- 
where else  and  bade  her  sit  beside  a  woman,  grey-haired 
also,  who  would  not  talk  at  all,  and  left  her  by  and  by. 
After  this  the  buttoned  man  gave  her  meat  between  bread. 
Still  later  a  young  man  with  beautiful,  large  eyes  inquired 
if  he  might  sit  beside  her  and  she  agreed  gladly.  He  smelled 
very  good.  He  asked  where  she  was  going  and  she  said 
to  find  friends.  He  said  she  would  find  many  on  Broadway 
and  that  easily;  she  had  only  to  show  herself  there.  He 
offered  to  point  out  the  way  there  and  just  as  all  seemed  in 
the  best  possible  way  the  buttoned  man  came  again,  frowned 
on  the  good-smelling  young  man  and  took  his  seat.  He 
talked  a  good  deal  to  Margarita — so  much  that  she  could 
not  very  well  attend  to  it.  At  last  he  gave  her  a  large  grey 
veil  and  commanded  her  to  wrap  her  head  in  it,  and  he  would 
look  after  her  when  they  got  to  New  York.  But  when  they 
did  get  to  New  York  she  eluded  him  and  asked  the  way  to 
Broadway,  and  then  she  met  Roger.  So,  as  the  young  man 
had  said,  there  were  friends  on  Broadway.  But  there  were 
none  in  the  town  from  which  she  took  the  ticket  and  she 
had  no  idea  what  its  name  was.  Hester  never  mentioned  it. 
She  did  not  believe  it  had  a  name. 

All  this  as  the  cab  rested  by  the  kerbstone.  It  was 
perfectly  obvious  that  she  was  speaking  the  truth.  They 
had  patronised  this  particular  driver  long  enough,  anyway, 
and  Roger  paid  him  liberally  and  led  Margarita  into  the 
draggled,  dusty  station;  the  new  one  was  not  then  built. 
Seated  beside  her  in  a  relatively  dim  corner  he  tried  to 
formulate  some  plan,  but  the  absurd  emptiness  of  the  situ- 
ation baffled  even  his  practical  good  sense.  How  could  he 
take  this  girl  to  a  town  that  neither  he  nor  she  knew  the  name 
of?  How,  on  the  other  hand,  could  he  fling  such  a  pro- 

[42] 


SCOOPED   HUNDREDS — PERHAPS  THOUSANDS — OUT   OF   A   CHEST,  TO   FLEE 

AT   DAWN 


FATE  REELS  IN 


jectile  as  Margarita  into  any  respectable  hotel?  What 
would  she  do — or  say?  True,  he  might  possibly  have  pre- 
sented her  as  his  sister  and  kept  her  sternly  in  view  during 
every  possible  moment,  but  she  was  not  sufficiently  well 
dressed  to  be  his  sister.  And  his  overcoat  was  buttoned 
suspiciously  high.  Was  he  to  stroll  out  of  the  waiting- 
room  and  leave  her  abandoned,  like  some  undesirable 
kitten,  in  the  corner?  The  idea  was  ludicrous:  she  must 
be  taken  care  of.  Had  she  thrust  herself  upon  him,  enticed 
him,  challenged  him?  Assuredly  not;  moved  by  some 
completely  inexplicable  influence,  utterly  alien  to  himself, 
his  birth,  his  training,  he  had  deliberately  and  persistently 
questioned  her,  prolonged  a  trifling  encounter  unjustifiably, 
whirled  her  away,  literally;  and  now  that  he  had  found  no 
suitable  place  of  deposit  it  was  incredible  that  he  should 
deliver  this  extraordinary  and  self-assumed  charge  to  civil 
authority.  It  would  have  been  almost  as  well  to  lead  her 
back  to  Broadway,  he  told  himself  sternly.  The  most 
exotic  foreigner  would  have  found  herself  in  better  case, 
it  occurred  to  him,  for  interpreters  of  one  sort  or  another 
can  always  be  found.  But  Margarita  seemed  foreign  to 
this  planet,  very  nearly.  What  should  be  said  of  a  person 
who  lived  on  a  nameless  shore,  served  by  Hester  Prynne 
and  Caliban?  Who  scooped  hundreds — perhaps  thousands 
— out  of  a  chest,  to  flee  at  dawn  from  a  town  whose  name 
she  had  never  heard  mentioned,  though  she  had  lived 
within  walking  distance  of  it  all  her  life  ? 

It  was  absurd — but  something  must  be  done.  Mar- 
garita sat  contented  and  amused,  devouring  the  shabby 
bustle  all  around  her  with  her  great  deep-set  eyes,  willing, 
apparently,  to  sit  there  indefinitely. 

"Will  you  let  me  examine  your  bag?"  Roger  said  at 
last,  and  she  handed  him  the  coarse,  imitation-leather  affair. 
There  was  a  soiled,  cheap  handkerchief  in  it,  some  four 
hundred  dollars  in  banknotes,  and  a  torn  envelope  with  a 
town  and  state  written  clearly  on  it. 

[43] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


I  have  tried  to  write  the  name  of  this  town,  and  when  I 
found  that  impossible,  I  tried  to  invent  one  to  take  its  place, 
but  I  could  not  do  it.  Surely  it  is  nothing  to  any  of  you 
who  may  happen  to  read  this  poor  attempt  of  mine  to  pass 
my  time,  nothing,  and  less  than  nothing,  just  what  may  be 
the  name  of  the  utterly  unimportant  little  backwater  of  a 
village  from  which,  if  you  know  the  way,  you  may  walk 
four  miles  or  so  to  Margarita's  home.  Undoubtedly  many 
of  you  sail  by  it  often,  but  it  is  hidden  from  you  by  the  rise 
of  the  ground,  the  high  rocks  and  the  great,  ancient-looking 
wall  that  I  helped  to  pile.  These  and  the  reefs  protect  it 
quite  sufficiently.  And  I  do  not  want  you  there.  It  would 
prove  far  too  interesting  a  spot  to  jaded  trippers  and  trotters 
— and  it  is  amazing  how  quickly  your  new  countries  grow 
jaded;  more  eager  for  fresh  scenes  than  old  Japan  herself, 
Nippon  the  rice-blest,  the  imperishable,  whence  I  send  these 
words. 

Be  satisfied,  then,  to  know  that  in  the  direction  of  this 
torn  envelope  Roger  held  the  clew  to  Margarita's  nameless 
home.  Yes,  the  young  woman  had  sold  her  the  bag  with 
the  clothing  and  advised  her  to  put  the  banknotes  in  it. 
No,  she  did  not  know  her  name.  She  smelled  good — like 
the  young  man  who  advised  Broadway. 

"Come,  Margarita,"  said  Roger  gravely,  "let  us  see 
when  you  can  start,"  and  she  followed  him  submissively  to 
the  wicket,  matched  her  stride  to  his  on  his  discovery  that 
a  train  which  would  take  them  half  way  was  just  about  to 
start,  and  ran  beside  him  to  the  steps  of  the  car.  He  mo- 
tioned to  her  to  mount  and  she  did  so,  turning  at  the  top 
of  the  steps  with  a  face  of  sudden  terror. 

"You  are  not  going  to  leave  me,  Roger  Bradley?"  she 
cried,  "where  am  I  going?" 

"Certainly  I  shall  not  leave  you.  You  are  going  home," 
he  said  quietly,  and  mounted  after  her.  The  guard  stared 
at  them,  the  bell  clanged  sadly  and  the  train  moved  out  of 
the  station.  The  play,  you  see,  was  well  along. 

[44] 


PART   TWO 
IN  WHICH  THE  SPRING  FLOWS  IN  A  LITTLE  STREAM 


O  father,  mother,  let  me  be, 

Never  again  shall  I  have  rest. 
For  as  I  lay  beside  the  sea, 
A  woman  walked  the  waves  to  me, 
And  stole  the  heart  out  of  my  breast. 

Sir  Hugh  and  the  Mermaiden. 


[45] 


CHAPTER  V 
ROGER  FINDS  THE  ISLAND 

IT  goes  without  saying  that  I  have  a  retentive  memory. 
Of  course  I  depend  very  largely  upon  it  for  all  the  small  de- 
tails that  Roger  has  from  time  to  time  vouchsafed  me  in 
regard  to  his  relations  with  Margarita,  or  I  could  not  very 
well  be  writing  these  idle  memories,  but  Roger  was  always  a 
poor  writer — that  is  to  say,  so  far  as  comment  and  ampli- 
fication and  variety  of  manner  may  be  supposed  to  make  a 
good  one.  Witness  the  following  letter,  which  I  received  in 
answer  to  my  plea  for  details  of  that  strange  night  journey 
from  New  York  to  Margarita's  town.  It  left  a  gap  in  my 
story  of  which  I  never  happened  to  receive  any  account, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  a  fairly  important  gap,  though  you 
will  see  that  this  was  not  Roger's  view  of  it. 

DEAR  JERRY: 

It  is  rather  late  in  the  day  to  ask  me  about  that  trip  to 

.     We  hardly  spoke  for  a  long  time,  as  I  am  sure  I 

have  told  you  before — either  of  us.  There  was  no  berth 
to  be  had  for  her  and  no  drawing-room  car  on,  so  we  rode 
all  night  in  the  day  coach  with  a  rather  mixed  lot.  I  re- 
member they  snored  and  it  amused  her.  She  wanted  to 
wake  them  up  and  I  had  to  speak  sharply  to  prevent  her. 
The  air  got  very  bad  and  I  took  her  out  on  the  platform 
for  a  while.  I  remember  there  were  any  amount  of  stars 
and  the  moon  out,  too.  You  know  she  never  talked  much. 

About  one  o'clock  we  got  to  S and  changed  cars  for  a 

few  minutes'  wait.  ...  I  think  it  was  then  that  she  asked 
me  abruptly  what  I  meant  by  a  "convent."  She  said  it  in 
French  and  I  saw  that  she  spoke  and  understood  the  Ian- 

[47] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


guage,  but  only  in  a  simple,  childish  sort  of  way.  I  told 
her  it  was  a  big  school.  "What  is  that?"  she  said.  .  .  . 
There  were  a  number  of  Italians  on  the  train,  and  they  were 
chattering  like  magpies,  but  she  paid  no  attention  to 
them,  and  I  was  sure  she  did  not  understand  them. 

At we  got  out  and  I  asked  her  if  there  would  be  any 

livery  stable  open  at  that  hour,  for  it  was  not  more  than  four 
o'clock.  She  did  not  know,  of  course,  what  a  livery  stable 
was  and  told  me  that  we  must  either  go  in  a  boat  or  walk. 
So  we  walked.  The  sun  rose  while  we  were  walking.  I 
think  this  is  all  you  wanted. 

There  you  have  it!  Could  anything  be  simpler?  "I 
remember  there  were  any  amount  of  stars  .  .  .  You  know 
she  never  talked  much." — Oh,  Roger,  Roger!  Must  you 
always  have  the  doing  and  I  the  telling  ?  Even  to  this  day, 
though  I  would  cut  off  this  hand  for  you,  I  am  jealous  of  you. 
"The  sun  rose  while  we  were  walking"!  Ah  me,  to  walk 
with  Margarita  through  the  dawn!  She  was  the  very  dawn 
of  life  herself,  untarnished,  unfatigued,  unashamed.  To  me 
who  have  known  her,  other  women  are  as  pictures  in  a  gallery 
— lovely  pictures,  many  of  them,  but  a  little  faded  and 
fingermarked,  somehow. 

We  shall  have  to  take  that  walk  for  granted.  I  know  that 
it  consisted  of  a  quarter-mile  of  sleeping  village,  three 
quarters  of  a  mile  of  scattered  houses,  two  miles  of  widely 
separated  farms  and  then  two  last  miles  of  bayberry,  salt 
meadow,  coarse  grass,  rocky  sand  and  blue,  inrolling  seas. 
I  know  how  the  salty,  strengthening  air  blew  Roger's  lungs 
clean  of  the  frightful  murk  of  the  car,  how  the  strange,  stunted 
windrocked  trees  gave  an  odd,  unreal  air  of  Japan  to  that 
bleak  shore;  I  can  half  close  my  eyes  now  and  lo,  Atami 
and  her  thundering,  surf-swept  beach  broadens  out  before  me, 
and  the  breakers  as  they  come  pounding  in,  chase — not  the 
withered,  monkeylike  old  priest  who  searches  endlessly  for 
something  in  the  seaweed,  girding  his  clean,  faded  robe  above 
his  bare  sticks  of  legs — but  Margarita  and  me.  The  camphor 
[48] 


THE    TALL,    GAUNT,    SILENT    WOMAN 
STRIDING    THROUGH    THE    PASTURES 


ROGER   FINDS   THE   ISLAND 

trees  lose  their  lacquered  green  and  turn  to  distant  chestnut; 
the  scarlet  lily  fades  to  a  dull  rose  marsh  flower;  the  lines  of 
the  temple  are  only  quaintly-eaved  rocks  and  ledges,  and  I 
am  over  seas  again.  I  wonder  if  that  is  the  reason  I  love  this 
place  so?  But  there  were  no  geyser  baths  there  and  I  had 
no  rheumatism  then!  Tout  lasse,  tout  casse,  tout  passe — 
even  the  sciatic  nerve,  we  will  hope. 

Well,  then,  after  they  had  made  what  Roger  with  his 
usual  accuracy  in  such  matters  took  for  nearly  five  miles, 
it  occurred  to  him  to  ask  Margarita  how  it  was  that  she  knew 
her  way  so  well,  for  she  went  through  pastures,  broken 
walls,  here  and  there  a  bit  of  the  country  road,  with  the  air 
of  long  practice.  At  first  she  would  not  tell  him.  I  can 
imagine  that  slanting  school-boy  look,  that  quietly  malicious 
indrawing  of  the  corners  of  the  mouth:  the  most  enchanting 
obstinacy  conceivable.  They  were  following  at  the  time  a 
narrow  beaten  path,  perhaps  a  cattle  track,  but  that  was  not 
her  guide,  for  often  such  a  path  curved  and  returned  aimlessly 
on  itself  or  branched  off  quite  widely  from  the  direction  she 
took.  At  first,  as  I  say;  she  was  deaf  to  his  question,  but 
when  he  repeated  it,  patiently,  I  have  no  doubt,  but  evidently 
determined  upon  an  answer,  she  yielded,  as  we  all  yield  to 
Roger  in  the  end,  and  confessed  that  she  had  once  followed 
Hester  to  the  village  and  back  by  this  road.  Hester  had 
never  guessed  it,  never  in  fact  turned  her  back  when  once 
started,  and  it  had  been  easy  to  keep  her  in  sight.  At  the 
edge  of  the  town  Margarita  had  felt  a  little  shy  and  appre- 
hensive of  her  fate  if  discovered,  so  she  had  sat  by  the  wood- 
side  till  Hester  appeared  again  and  followed  her  meekly  home. 

Since  then  I  have  been  able  to  gather  some  idea  of  Hester's 
appearance  from  various  sources,  and  I  own  that  the  situa- 
tion has  always  seemed  to  me  picturesque  in  the  extreme: 
the  tall,  gaunt,  silent  woman  in  her  severe,  dull  dress  striding 
through  the  pastures,  and  behind  her,  stealthily  as  an  Indian — 
or  an  Italian  avenger — the  dark,  lovely  child,  now  crouching 
amongst  the  bayberry,  now  defiantly  erect,  but  always  grace- 

[49] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


f ul  as  a  panther,  her  hair  loose  on  her  slender  shoulders. 
I  cannot  forbear  to  add  that  in  this  picture  of  mine,  a  great 
vivid  letter  burns  on  the  woman's  breast,  inseparable  from  her 
name,  of  course.  But  this  only  adds  to  the  sombre  power  of 
the  picture.  It  is  a  thing  for  Vedder  to  paint,  in  witchlike 
browns  and  greys. 

Margarita  had  never  made  this  journey  but  once,  but  she 
followed  her  old  trail  with  the  precision  of  a  savage.  I  my- 
self have  gone  that  way  once  only:  and  then  but  half  of  the 
distance,  or  a  little  less.  It  was  not  in  bayberry  time,  but 
through  a  land  smooth  and  blue- white  with  snow  and  with  a 
terror  pulling  my  heart  out  that  I  am  sure  I  could  never 
endure  again.  How  we  flew  over  the  snow!  It  was  all  a 
ghastly  glare,  a  dancing  sun  in  a  torquoise  sky  .  .  .  No,  no, 
one  does  not  live  through  such  things  twice  and  I  hate  even 
the  memory  of  it.  Even  with  the  boiling  geyser  rumbling 
behind  me,  filling  the  baths  with  comfort  and  oblivion,  I 
shiver  to  my  very  marrow. 

After  they  had  followed  a  certain  marshy  band  of  vivid 
green  for  several  pasture-lengths,  Margarita  shook  her  head 
slightly,  retraced  her  steps  and  stopped  at  a  point  where 
three  or  four  great  flat  stones  made  a  sort  of  causeway  across 
the  glistening,  muddy  strip,  and  Roger,  following  her  as  she 
jumped  lightly  over,  saw  that  they  stood  upon  a  little  rocky 
promontory  joined  only  by  this  strange  bit  of  marsh  to  the 
mainland.  The  strip  was  here  not  a  hundred  feet  wide,  and 
winding  in  on  either  side  of  this  two  little  inlets  crept  slug- 
gishly along  and  lost  themselves  in  the  marsh.  The  prom- 
ontory was  there  very  barren  and  it  seemed  to  Roger  that  the 
girl  was  going  to  lead  him  out  into  the  shallow  cove  that 
faced  them,  but  a  few  more  steps  showed  him  that  just  here 
the  point  of  land  curved  around  this  cove,  which  swept  far 
inland,  and  broadened  out  wonderfully  into  several  acres  of 
meadow-hay  dotted  with  sparse,  stunted  cedars. 

Directly  before  him  lay  a  wet,  shining  beach,  for  the  tide  was 
half  gone,  and  a  hundred  yards  out,  the  tops  of  what  might  al- 
[So] 


ROGER   FINDS   THE   ISLAND 

most  have  been  a  built  wall  of  nasty  pointed  rocks  formed  a 
perfect  lagoon  across  the  face  of  the  promontory.  At  high 
tide  these  would  not  show,  but  they  were  there,  always  guard- 
ing, always  bare-toothed,  and  as  far  again  beyond  them  a  bell- 
buoy  mounted  on  a  similar  ledge  seemed  to  point  to  the 
existence  of  a  double  barrier.  It  was  a  great  lonesome  bay 
of  the  Atlantic  that  he  looked  at,  its  arms  on  either  side  deso- 
late, scrubby  and  forbidding,  with  not  a  hint  of  life.  Sud- 
denly, as  he  stared,  wondering,  and  Margarita  stood  quiet 
beside  him,  a  long,  quavering  bellow  came  from  behind  him. 

"It  is  the  cow,"  said  Margarita  reassuringly,  as  he  whirled 
around,  "she  is  calling  Caliban  to  milk  her,  I  suppose." 

Again  the  impatient,  minor  bellow  rose  on  the  air,  and 
Roger  perceived  that  what  he  had  carelessly  passed  over  as  a 
great  sand  dune  was  in  reality  a  square  cottage  built  of  sand, 
apparently,  for  it  was  precisely  the  colour  and  texture  of  sand, 
sloping  off  in  a  succession  of  outbuildings,  just  as  the  cliffs 
and  dunes  slope,  windowless,  nearly,  from  that  side  at  least, 
and  offering  only  the  anxious  cow,  peering  from  the  furthest 
outhouse,  as  evidence  of  life.  Close  up  to  it  on  one  side,  the 
right,  a  great,  cliff-like  spur  of  rock  shot  up  and  ran  like  a 
wall  for  fifty  feet,  then  fell  away  gradually  into  the  sand  of  the 
beach  which  ran  up  to  meet  it;  the  cottage  itself  was  perched 
on  the  beach  edge,  and  beyond  it,  on  the  left  side,  the  strag- 
gling grass  began.  They  moved  on  toward  this  house,  then, 
and  as  they  neared  it  a  long,  melancholy  howl  echoed  the 
cow's  lament,  a  howl  with  a  baying,  mellow  undertone  that 
lingered  on  the  morning  air.  For  it  was  honest  morning 
now,  a  September  morning,  blowing  wild-grapes  and  sea  sand 
and  bayberry  into  Roger's  nostrils.  As  he  stared  at  the  house 
a  great  hound  crept  around  the  corner  of  it,  baying  monoto- 
nously, but  as  he  saw  Margarita  he  left  off  and  ran  to  her, 
arching  his  brindled  head.  He  was  a  Danish  hound,  beauti- 
fully brindled  and  very  massive.  She  fondled  him  quietly, 
smiling  as  he  clumsily  threw  his  great  paws  about  her  waist, 
and  pushed  him  down. 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


"I  am  very  hungry,"  said  Margarita  abruptly,  "I  think 
I  will  have  Caliban  bring  me  some  warm  milk." 

She  turned  her  direction  slightly  and  made  for  the  cow 
stall,  and  as  he  stood  by  the  door  Roger  saw  that  whatever  the 
internal  structure  of  the  building  might  be,  it  was  certainly 
covered  with  rough  sand. 

"Here  is  Caliban  now,"  she  added,  and  a  loutish  looking 
fellow,  small-eyed,  heavy-lipped  and  shock-haired,  appeared 
to  rise  out  of  the  ground  before  them,  dangling  a  milk  pail 
on  his  arm.  At  sight  of  Margarita  his  jaw  dropped,  he 
shivered  violently  and  appeared  ready  to  faint,  but  as  she 
called  encouragingly  to  him  he  mustered  courage  to  ap- 
proach and  feel  of  her  skirt  timidly.  He  was  evidently 
feeble-minded  as  well  as  dumb,  for  with  a  sort  of  croak  he 
dropped  the  bucket  and  began  to  dance  clumsily  up  and 
down,  snapping  his  fingers  the  while.  Plainly  he  had  thought 
her  gone  for  good  and  this  was  his  thanksgiving. 

"Milk  the  cow,  Caliban,  I  am  thirsty," said  Margarita  im- 
patiently, after  a  moment  of  this,  "and  get  me  some  bread. 
Make  haste  with  it." 

He  started  on  a  run  for  the  door  furthest  from  the  cow 
stall  and  appeared  almost  immediately  with  a  large  silver 
mug  and  a  huge  piece  torn  from  a  loaf.  Squatting  beside  the 
cow  he  balanced  the  mug  between  his  knees  and  deftly 
milked  it  full.  She  seized  it,  drained  it  thirstily  and  began 
munching  her  bread,  holding  the  mug  out  to  him  again  to  be 
filled  a  second  time.  She  bit  great  mouthfuls  from  the  loaf, 
like  a  child  of  four,  and  Roger  watched  her,  half  amused, 
half  irritated. 

"You  are  not  accustomed  to  the  exercise  of  hospitality, 
I  see,"  he  said  finally,  and  as  she  looked  at  him  over  the 
silver  mug  inquiringly,  he  explained. 

"I  have  walked  for  more  than  an  hour  and  I  am  hungry, 
too,  Miss  Margarita,"  he  said.  "Won't  you  offer  me  any- 
thing to  eat  and  drink  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  doubtfully. 
[52] 


ROGER   FINDS   THE   ISLAND 

"I  need  this  bread  myself,"  she  said,  "and  no  one  drinks 
from  this  cup  but  me.  I  should  not  like  it.  If  Caliban  will 
get  you  another  .  .  ." 

"Surely  he  will  if  you  tell  him  to,"  Roger  suggested 
mildly. 

"Very  well,"  she  returned  indifferently,  "when  he  has 
finished  milking,  I  will,"  and  she  continued  her  meal,  adding, 
"  I  do  not  think  he  likes  you,  for  he  shows  his  teeth.  He  did 
that  when  the  doctor  came  to  see  my  father." 

I  asked  Margarita  a  year  or  two  after  this  to  describe  for 
me  how  she  first  entertained  Roger:  I  had  already  a  good 
idea  of  his  initial  hospitality  to  her  in  the  French  restaurant. 
Here  is  her  letter. 

DEAREST  JERRY: 

What  an  odd  thing  to  ask  me  to  tell  you — my  first  hos- 
pitality to  Roger!  But  I  remember  it  very  well.  Only  it 
was  not  very  hospitable,  because,  of  course,  I  did  not  know 
anything  about  that  sort  of  thing.  One  has  to  learn  that, 
like  finger  bowls  and  asking  people  if  they  slept  well.  You 
know  I  called  for  some  bread  and  milk  and  ate  them  very 
greedily,  standing  by  the  cow  so  that  I  could  get  more  when 
I  should  want  it.  By  the  time  I  had  finished,  Caliban  had 
finished  milking  and  then  Roger  asked  me  quite  politely 
if  I  thought  he  might  have  something  to  eat  now.  You 
know,  dear  Jerry,  I  had  never  been  used  to  eating  with  peo- 
ple. All  the  people  I  knew  ate  their  meals  separately  and 
it  never  occurred  to  me  that  I  ought  to  be  there  when  he 
ate.  And  then,  I  was  so  sleepy — oh,  so  sleepy!  You  know 
I  have  always  felt  sleepy  and  hungry  and  angry  and  things 
like  that  so  much  more  than  other  people  seem  to.  I  have 
to  sleep  and  eat  when  I  feel  like  sleeping  and  eating.  So  I 
only  said,  "You  had  better  ask  Hester  to  get  you  a  break- 
fast. I  must  go  to  sleep  now,"  and  flung  myself  down  on 
some  fresh  hay  just  beside  the  cow  stall,  in  the  sun,  and 
went  to  sleep!  Was  not  that  a  dreadful  thing  to  do?  But 
I  did  it.  I  do  not  know  how  long  I  slept,  nor  how  Roger 
looked  when  I  turned  my  back  on  him,  but  when  I  opened 

[53] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


my  eyes  he  was  sitting  beside  me,  smoking  a  cigar  and 
staring  at  me.  He  had  been  there  all  the  time. 

"Did  Hester  get  you  a  breakfast?"  I  asked  him,  stretch- 
ing myself  like  a  big  baby. 

"I  have  not  asked  her,"  he  said  very  quietly,  "suppose  we 
go  in  now  and  see  about  it,  if  you  are  rested." 

So  we  went  in,  but  Hester  was  not  in  the  kitchen,  and 
when  I  went  up  to  her  room  and  knocked  there  was  no  an- 
swer, so  I  supposed  she  had  gone  out  for  the  roots  and 
herbs  she  used  to  hunt  so  much. 

"You  will  have  to  get  it  yourself,"  I  told  him,  "unless 
Caliban  will." 

"Are  you  not  willing  to  do  that  much  for  me,  then?" 
he  said,  and  I  felt  very  strange,  though  I  could  not  explain 
why.  I  think  now  it  was  because  I  began  to  understand 
that  I  ought  to  have  done  something  I  had  not. 

"I  would  get  it  for  you  if  I  could,"  I  said,  "but  I  do  not 
know  how  to  make  a  breakfast,  nor  where  Hester  keeps 
her  things.  Why  do  you  not  ask  Caliban  ?  " 

So  then  he  asked  Caliban  if  he  could  manage  some  break- 
fast for  him,  but  Caliban  only  stared  and  walked  away. 

"Does  he  understand?"  Roger  asked  me,  and  I  felt  that 
his  voice  was  not  the  same  as  it  had  been. 

"I  am  sure  he  does,"  I  said.  "Will  you  not  do  as  this 
man  asks  you,  Caliban?"  But  he  only  scowled  and  turned 
away. 

"You  see,"  I  said,  "there  is  nothing  to  be  done  until 
Hester  comes."  But  Roger  shook  his  head  and  walked 
over  to  Caliban. 

I  am  sure  he  knew  it  was  not  that  I  grudged  him  food, 
but  that  I  had  no  idea  at  all  of  how  to  set  about  getting  it 
ready.  People  always  have  known  that  what  I  say  is  truth, 
though  much  of  what  I  say  seems  to  surprise  them. 

"If  you  will  excuse  me,"  he  said,  "I  will  try  a  slightly 
different  method,"  and  I  knew  he  was  very  angry.  He 
lifted  Caliban  in  the  air  by  the  collar  of  his  coat  and  gave 
him  several  sharp  blows  on  each  ear  and  shook  him.  Then 
he  threw  him  away  on  the  floor.  Caliban  cried  like  a  young 
dog  and  sat  upon  his  knees  and  covered  his  face.  He  meant 

[54] 


ROGER   FINDS  THE   ISLAND 

for  Roger  to  excuse  him.     I  was  surprised,  for  I  had  always 
been  a  little  afraid  of  Caliban. 

"Get  up,"  said  Roger,  very  quietly,  "and  make  me  some 
coffee  and  whatever  else  you  have.  And  see  that  you  obey 
me  in  future." 

Caliban  hurried  about  and  looked  here  and  there  and 
made  some  coffee  and  broke  eggs  in  a  black  pan  and  cut 
pieces  of  bacon.  He  set  a  place  at  the  kitchen  table  and 
made  some  biscuits  warm  in  the  oven.  Roger  ate  five  eggs 
and  a  great  many  pieces  of  bacon  and  six  biscuits.  He  gave 
me  some  coffee.  When  he  had  finished  he  drew  a  long 
breath  and  gave  Caliban  a  piece  of  silver  money  and  Cali- 
ban kissed  it.  Then  Roger  took  another  cigar  and  told 
Caliban  to  fetch  a  match  and  then  he  asked  me  if  I  would 
like  to  walk  by  the  sea  for  a  little. 

"I  ought  to  find  this  Hester  of  yours,"  he  said,  "but  I 
won't  just  yet.  I  am  too  comfortable.  Will  you  come  out 
with  me?" 

So  I  said  I  would,  and  that  was  all  my  hospitality,  dear 
Jerry.  I  had  learned  better  when  you  came,  had  I  not? 
This  letter  has  been  so  long  that  I  cannot  write  any  more. 

Your  MARGARITA. 

My  Margarita!  The  very  words  are  not  like  any  other 
two  words.  I  think  no  woman's  name  is  so  purely  sweet  to 
the  ear,  so  grateful  on  the  tongue.  My  Margarita!  Alas, 
alas.  .  .  . 

As  to  that  walk  by  the  sea,  I  have  never  been  able  to  get  any 
satisfactory  account  of  it.  Any,  that  is,  which  could  hope 
to  prove  satisfactory  to  one  who  did  not  know  Roger.  Such 
an  one  might  be  incredulous,  in  face  of  all  that  had  gone 
before,  when  assured  that  Roger  paced  back  and  forth  on  the 
firm  sand,  filling  his  lungs  in  the  clean  sea  air,  puffing  his 
cigar  in  perfect  silence,  Margarita  at  his  heels  as  silent  as 
he,  and  the  big  Danish  hound  at  hers,  more  silent  than 
either.  But  so  it  was.  To  me  who  know  them  both,  noth- 
ing could  seem  more  natural.  They  were  healthy,  well- 
poised  animals,  well  fed,  supplied  with  plenty  of  fresh  air 

[55] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


(a  prime  necessity  to  them  both)  and  in  congenial  company. 
Neither  of  them  was  given  to  consideration  of  the  past  or 
prognostication  of  the  future;  both  of  them  were  content. 
Roger  has  always  had  that  priceless  faculty  of  reserving 
mental  processes,  apparently,  until  they  are  necessary. 
When  they  are  not,  he  lays  them  by,  as  a  sportsman  lays  by 
his  gun,  and  the  teasing,  relentless  imps  that  poison  the  rest 
of  us  with  futile  regrets  for  the  past  and  vain  hopes  for  the 
future  avoid  him  utterly.  It  is  the  pure  Anglo  Saxon  corner- 
stone of  that  great,  slow  wall  which  I  firmly  believe  is  destined 
to  encircle  the  world,  one  day.  Your  slender,  brown  peoples 
with  their  throbbing,  restless  brains  and  curious,  trembling 
fingers  may — and  doubtless  will — build  the  cathedrals  and 
paint  the  frescoes  therein  and  write  the  songs  to  be  sung 
there;  but  they  must  hold  their  land  from  Roger  and  his 
kind  and  look  to  him  to  guard  them  safe  and  unmolested 
there.  Or  so  it  seems  to  me. 

After  an  hour  or  so  of  this  walking  Caliban  approached 
them,  and  bending  humbly  before  Roger  made  it  clear  that 
he  greatly  desired  their  presence  at  the  cottage.  They  went 
after  him,  Margarita  incurious  because  she  was  utterly  in- 
different, Roger  wasting  no  energy,  of  course,  with  no  facts 
to  proceed  upon.  At  the  kitchen  he  endeavoured  to  lead 
them  up  the  narrow  stair,  and  then  Margarita  asked  him  if 
anything  was  wrong  with  Hester  and  if  she  had  sent  him. 

He  nodded  his  head  violently  and  led  her  up  the  stair.  In 
a  few  moments  she  returned. 

"Hester,"  she  said  composedly,  "is  dead." 

"Dead?"  Roger  echoed  in  consternation,  "are  you 
certain  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  replied,  "she  is  cold,  just  like  my  father. 
She  is  sitting  in  her  chair.  Her  eyes  are  open  and  she  is 
dead." 

Rogers  stared  thoughtfully  ahead  of  him.  He  never 
doubted  her  for  a  moment.  It  was  always  impossible  to 
doubt  Margarita. 

[56] 


ROGER    FINDS   THE    ISLAND 

"I  wonder  if  Caliban  will  make  my  breakfast,  now?" 
she  added,  with  a  shadow  of  concern  in  her  voice.  "I  think 
he  puts  more  coffee  in  the  pot:  I  shall  be  glad  of  that." 

"For  heaven's  sake,"  Roger  cried  sharply,  "are  you 
human,  child?  This  woman,  if  I  understand  you,  has 
taken  care  of  you  from  babyhood!" 

"Of  course,"  said  Margarita,  "but  I  do  not  like  her  and 
she  does  not  like  me.  She  liked  my  father." 

It  may  seem  strange  to  you  that  Roger  did  not  immediately 
ascend  the  stair  and  confirm  Margarita's  report,  but  he  did 
not.  Instead  he  spoke  to  Caliban. 

"Is  the  woman  dead?"  he  asked  shortly. 

The  clumsy,  slow-witted  youth  nodded  his  head  and  sobbed 
noisily,  with  strange  animal-like  grunts  and  gulps. 

"Has  she  been  dead  long,  do  you  think?"  Roger  asked. 

Caliban  raised  his  hand  and  checked  off  the  five  fingers 
slowly.  It  was  understood  that  he  indicated  so  many  hours. 
He  placed  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  then  shook  his  head  from 
side  to  side.  Suddenly  he  shifted  his  features  unbelievably 
and  Roger  gazed  horrified  upon  a  very  mask  of  death:  there 
was  no  doubt  as  to  what  Caliban  had  seen. 

This  being  so  Roger  thought  a  moment  and  then  spoke. 

"I  am  very  sleepy,  Margarita,"  he  said,  "and  I  don't  care 
to  walk  back  to  the  village  directly,  since  it  would  do  no 
especial  good.  I  think  I  will  take  a  little  nap  on  the  beach, 
if  you  don't  mind,  and  then  I'll  go  to  the  village  and  get 
help  to — to  do  the  various  things  that  must  be  done.  Later 
I  will  have  a  talk  with  you.  Tell  me  once  again — you  do 
not  know  of  any  friends  or  relatives  of  your  father's  or 
Hester's?" 

She  shook  her  head,  carelessly  but  definitely. 

"Does  Caliban?" 

But  this  question  was  beyond  the  poor  lout's  intelligence; 
he  could  only  blubber  and  fend  off  possible  chastisement. 

"Take  another  nap,  if  you  can,  Margarita,"  said  Roger, 
" and  I  will  go  to  the  beach.  Call  me  if  you  want  me." 

[57] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


She  went  off  to  her  warm  straw,  threw  herself  on  it  like  a 
tired  child,  and  passed  quickly  into  a  deep  sleep;  he  tramped 
for  a  moment  on  the  beach,  then  stretched  himself  in  the  lee 
of  a  sun-warmed  rock  and  fell  into  the  dreamless,  renewing 
rest  that  he  took  as  his  simple  due  from  nature. 


I  58] 


CHAPTER  VI 

FATE  CASTS  HER  DIE 

WHEN  he  woke  it  was  full  sunset.  The  lonely  reefs  were 
red  with  it  (O  Margarita,  well  I  know  that  hour!  Do  you 
remember  our  talks  ?)  the  point  of  land  seemed  drowned  in 
it,  and  with  a  sense  of  something  inexcusably  forgotten  and 
put  off,  Roger  hurried  to  the  house  that  stood  strangely 
deserted,  it  seemed,  in  the  dying  glow.  In  just  that  glow  I 
have  watched  it,  leaning  on  my  oars,  and  for  a  few  strange 
minutes,  the  exact  time  necessary  for  the  sun  to  drop  be- 
hind the  coast-hills,  I  have  felt  myself  a  small  boy  again, 
crouched  in  a  cane  chair  before  my  mother's  sewing-table, 
unable  for  very  terror  to  drop  my  feet  to  the  floor  as  I  gazed 
through  wide  eyes  at  the  House  of  Usher,  that  home  of  sun- 
set mystery.  Such  a  strange,  Poe-like  atmosphere  could 
that  sanded,  secret  cottage  take  upon  itself. 

Roger  pushed  rapidly  up  the  beach  and  entered  the  house 
quietly,  so  quietly  that  he  caught  Margarita's  last  sentences, 
which  struck  him  as  odd  even  in  his  utter  ignorance  of  their 
connection.  She  was  evidently  scolding  Caliban,  for  his 
grunts  and  shufflings  punctuated  her  pauses. 

"It  is  very  saucy  and  unkind  of  you,  Caliban,"  she  was 
saying,  "and  you  need  not  think  you  can  do  as  you  like  be- 
cause Hester  is  dead.  I  know  she  can  not  walk  any  more. 
My  father  could  not  walk  when  he  was  dead.  And  you  need 
not  think  that  Roger  Bradley  will  not  ask,  because  he  will. 
He  knows  everything." 

Roger  thought  that  the  lout  had  been  teasing  her  with 
stupid  ghost  hints  and  bade  him  begone  sternly,  more  vexed 
than  before  as  he  noticed  the  dim  twilight  drawing  in  and 

[59] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


realised  how  late  and  inconvenient  the  hour  was  for  all  he 
had  to  do. 

"Can  you  get  me  a  lantern,  Margarita?"  he  said  shortly. 
"I  must  get  back  to  the  village  and  try  to  bring  someone 
out  with  me  to  see  about  the — all  the  matters  that  must  be 
attended  to — upstairs." 

"Upstairs?"  she  repeated,  "what  matters?"  He  blessed 
her  indifference  then,  and  explained  as  gently  as  he  could 
the  necessity  for  some  disposition  of  her  old  housekeeper's 
body. 

"Oh!  Hester,"  she  returned,  "you  cannot  do  anything 
to  Hester,  Roger  Bradley,  for  she  has  gone." 

"Gone,"  he  echoed  stupidly. 

"Go  and  see,"  said  Margarita,  pointing  to  the  stairway, 
and  he  took  the  steps  two  at  a  time.  The  room  that  she  in- 
dicated faced  the  stairs  directly.  It  was  furnished  plainly 
with  an  ugly  wooden  bed  covered  with  a  bright  patchwork 
quilt,  a  pine  bureau  and  two  cheap  chairs.  The  walls  were 
utterly  bare  and  the  floor,  but  for  a  woven  rug  near  the  bed, 
of  the  sort  so  common  in  New  England.  And  yet  there  was 
an  air  of  homely  occupation  in  the  plain  chamber,  a  bright, 
patched  cushion  in  one  chair,  a  basket  full  of  household 
mending  and  such  matters,  on  a  small  table,  a  pair  of 
spectacles  and  a  worn  E.'ble  beside  it.  The  room  had  that 
unmistakable  air  of  recent  occupation,  that  subtle  atmosphere 
of  use  and  wont  that  no  art  can  simulate — and  yet  it  was 
empty. 

Roger  came  down  the  stairs  again  and  summoned  Caliban. 
The  fellow  lay  in  a  deep  sleep,  just  as  he  had  thrown  himself, 
on  the  straw  beside  the  cow  stall,  a  full  pail  of  milk  beside 
him.  It  was  hard  to  wake  him,  for  he  scowled  and  snored 
and  dropped  heavily  off  again  after  each  shaking,  but  at  last 
he  stood  conscious  before  them  and  appeared  to  understand 
Roger's  sharp  questions  well  enough,  though  his  only 
answer  was  a  clumsy  twist  of  his  large  head  and  a  dismal 
negative  sort  of  grunt. 
[60] 


FATE   CASTS   HER   DIE 


Where  was  Hester's  body?  Was  she  really  dead?  Had 
anyone  been  in  the  house  ?  What  had  he  been  doing  all  the 
afternoon  ?  One  might  as  well  have  asked  the  great  hound 
in  the  doorway.  Even  to  threats  of  violence  he  was  dumb, 
cowering,  it  is  true,  but  hopelessly  and  with  no  attempt  to 
escape  whatever  penalty  his  obstinacy  might  incur. 

Roger  fell  into  a  perplexed  silence  and  the  lout  dropped 
back  snoring  on  his  straw. 

"I  do  not  see  why  we  came  back  from  Broadway,"  Mar- 
garita observed  placidly.  "  I  did  not  want  to,  you  remember, 
and  now  Caliban  is  too  sleepy  to  get  our  supper.  We  shall 
have  to  have  more  bread  and  milk.  Let  us  eat  it  on  the 
rocks,  Roger  Bradley,  will  you?" 

And  Roger,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  was  forty  and  a 
conspicuously  practical  person  (or  was  it,  perhaps  just 
because  of  this  fact?  I  confess  I  am  not  quite  sure!)  actually 
left  that  house  of  mystery  carrying  a  yellow  earthen  pitcher 
of  milk,  a  crusty  loaf  of  new  bread,  a  great  slice  of  sage 
cheese  and  a  blueberry  pie,  followed  by  Margarita  and  the 
Danish  hound,  Margarita  prattling  of  Broadway,  the  dog 
licking  her  hand,  Roger,  I  have  no  sort  of  doubt,  intent  on 
conveying  the  food  in  good  order  to  its  destination! 

They  sat  on  the  rocks,  warm  yet  with  the  September  sun, 
and  ate  with  a  healthy  relish,  while  the  first  pale  stars  came 
out  and  the  incoming  tide  lapped  the  smooth  beach.  I  have 
been  assured  that  they  never  in  the  conversation  that  fol- 
lowed mentioned  the  island — though  it  was  not  then  an 
island,  to  be  sure — that  they  were  sitting  upon,  nor  the  ex- 
traordinary events  which  had  happened  there  and  had 
brought  them  to  it.  And  I  believe  it.  I  also  believe,  and  do 
not  need  to  be  assured,  that  they  talked  little  of  anything. 
They  never  did.  Again  and  again  I  have  imparted  to 
Roger  some  or  other  of  Margarita's  amazing  conversations 
with  me  and  he  has  listened  to  them  with  the  grave  interest 
of  a  stranger  and  even  questioned  me  indolently  as  to  my 
theory  of  that  stage  of  her  development.  I  must  add  that  he 

[61] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


has  never  seemed  surprised  at  what  she  said  and  has  oc- 
casionally corrected  me  in  my  analyses  and  prophecies  with 
an  acuteness  that  has  astonished  me,  for  he  was  never  byway 
of  being  analytic,  our  Roger.  When  I  once  remarked  to 
Clarence  King  (who  was  devoted  to  her)  apropos  of  this 
silence  of  theirs  that  it  was  like  the  quiet  intimacy  of  the  ani- 
mals, he  looked  at  me  deeply  for  a  moment,  then  added, 
"Or  the  angels,  maybe?"  which,  like  most  of  King's  re- 
marks, bears  thinking  of,  dear  fellow.  I  never  heard  him  in 
my  life  talk  so  brilliantly  as  he  did  one  afternoon  stretched 
on  the  sand  by  Margarita,  while  she  fed  him  wild  straw- 
berries from  her  lap  and  embroidered  the  most  beautiful 
butterfly  on  the  lapel  of  his  old  velveteen  jacket,  and  Roger 
tried  to  ride  in  on  the  breakers  like  the  South  Sea  Islanders. 

From  time  to  time  Clarence  would  turn  one  of  those  lumi- 
nous sentences  of  his  and  kiss  the  stained  finger  tips  that  fed 
him  (I  never  did  that  in  my  life)  and  from  time  to  time 
Roger's  splendid  tanned  body  would  rise  between  us  and  the 
sun,  triumphant  on  his  board  or  ignominiously  flat  between 
the  great  combers.  But  he  was  as  calm  as  the  tide  and  we 
knew  that  he  would  beat  it  in  the  end  and  "get  the  hang  of 
it"  as  he  promised.  She  never  turned  her  eyes  toward  him, 
that  I  could  see,  but  I  am  convinced  that  she  was  perfectly 
aware  each  time  he  fell.  She  never  talked  much  to  King 
and  he  was  always  a  little  jealous  of  me  on  that  account. 
But  she  was  very  fond  of  him  and  always  wrote  to  him 
when  he  was  off  on  his  ramblings.  His  letters  to  her  were  al- 
ways in  rhyme,  the  cleverest  possible. 

There  are,  of  course,  whole  pages  to  be  written — if  one 
wanted  to  write  them — of  that  night  on  the  rocks.  I  naturally 
don't  want  to  write  them.  To  say  that  I  have  not  imagined 
them  would  be  a  stupid  lie;  I  am  human.  But  I  have  never 
been  able  to  bring  myself  to  the  point  of  view  of  the  modern 
lady  novelist  in  these  matters.  Why  is  it,  by  the  way,  that 
God  has  hidden  so  many  things  in  these  latter  days  from 
the  prudent  and  revealed  them  unto  spinsters  ? 
[62] 


FATE   CASTS   HER   DIE 


Not  that  I  need  to  rely  on  my  imagination:  Margarita 
would  have  saved  me  that.  Once  she  got  the  idea  that  I  was 
interested  in  those  early  days,  she  was  perfectly  willing  to 
draw  upon  her  extraordinary  memory  for  all  the  details  I 
could  endure.  But  of  course  I  could  not  let  her.  The  dar- 
ling imbecile — could  anything  have  been  so  hopelessly 
enchanting  as  Margarita?  It  is  impossible.  If  you  can 
picture  to  yourself  a  boy — but  that  is  misleading,  directly, 
when  I  think  of  her  curled  close  against  me  on  the  rocks,  her 
hand  on  my  arm  and  all  my  veins  tingling  under  it.  She 
was  all  woman.  And  yet  who  but  me  who  knew  her  can  ever 
have  heard  from  the  lips  of  any  woman  such  absolute  naivete, 
such  crystal  frankness?  It  was  like  those  dear  talks  with 
some  lovely,  loved  and  loving  child.  But  that,  again,  gives 
you  no  proper  idea.  For  no  child's  throat  sounds  such  deep, 
bell-like  tones,  such  sweet,  swooping  cadences.  And  no 
child's  eyes  meet  yours  with  that  clear  beam,  only  to  soften 
and  tremble  and  swim  suddenly  with  such  alluring  ten- 
derness that  your  heart  shakes  in  you  and  slips  out  to  drown 
contentedly  in  those  slate-blue  depths.  No,  no,  there  is  no 
describing  Margarita.  Perhaps  King  came  nearest  to  it 
when  he  said  that  she  was  Eve  before  the  fall,  plus  a  sense  of 
humour!  But  Eve  is  distinctly  Miltonian  to  us  (unfor- 
tunately for  the  poor  woman)  and  Margarita  would  have 
horrified  Milton — there  is  no  doubt  of  it. 

Well,  well,  I  left  them  on  the  moonlit  rocks,  and  there  I 
had  better  leave  them,  I  suppose.  It  is  so  hard  for  me  to 
make  you  understand  that  Roger  was  incapable  of  anything 
low,  when  I  am  apparently  doing  my  best  to  catalogue  ac- 
tions that  can  be  set  only  too  easily  in  an  extremely 
doubtful  light.  All  I  can  say  is,  pick  out  the  best  fellow 
you  know,  the  one  you'd  rather  have  to  count  on,  at  a 
pinch,  than  another,  the  one  you'd  swear  to  for  doing  the 
straight  thing  and  holding  his  tongue  about  it — then  give 
him  five  feet  eleven  and  a  half  inches  and  blue  eyes  and 
you've  Roger.  This  is  rather  a  poor  dodge  at  character 

[63] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


drawing:  I  know  a  competent  author  would  never  throw 
himself  on  your  mercy  so. 

But  then,  what  does  it  matter  ?  When  the  members  of  a 
man's  own  household,  who  have  known  him  from  boyhood, 
fail  to  understand  him  and  take  a  satiric  pleasure  in  looking 
at  what  he  does  from  the  nastiest  possible  standpoint  (none 
the  less  nasty  because  it  is  a  logically  possible  standpoint) 
why  should  I,  a  confessed  amateur,  hope  to  make  Roger 
clear  to  you  if  you  are  determined  to  misjudge  him  ? 

I  find  myself  still  a  little  sore  on  this  point:  unnecessarily 
so,  you  may  be  thinking.  But  you  never  had  to  explain  it 
to  the  family  in  Boston,  you  see — and  Sarah.  I  had.  I  can 
see  her  cold,  grey-green  eyes  to  this  hour,  her  white  starched 
shirt  and  her  sharp  steel  belt  buckle — ugh !  It  should  be  ille- 
gal, in  a  Republic  where  there  are  so  many  less  sensible  laws, 
for  any  woman  to  be  so  ostentatiously  unattractive.  .  .  . 

"Margarita,"  I  said  once,  very  soon  after  I  had  met  her, 
"were  you  ever  caught  by  the  tide  on  those  first  rocks? 
See  how  it  has  crept  up  and  cut  them  off." 

"Oh  yes,  often,"  she  answered,  "the  first  night  Roger 
ever  came  here,  for  once.  Do  you  not  remember,  I  told  you 
how  he  carried  the  blueberry  pie  and  the  milk  out  there 
and  we  ate  them?  He  was  so  hungry!  It  was  then  that 
he  looked  at  me  so " 

"Blueberry  pie,"  I  said  hastily,  "is  very  messy,  I  think, 
though  undoubtedly  good.  It  makes  one's  mouth  so  black." 

"I  know,"  she  murmured  reminiscently,  "I  told  Roger 
that  his  mouth  was  stained  and  I  laughed  at  him.  And  then 
he  said  that  mine  was  worse,  because  there  was  some  on  my 
chin — why  do  you  scowl  so,  Jerry?  Is  that  a  wrong  thing 
to  tell?" 

"No,  no,"  I  assured  her,  "of  course  not." 

"I  am  glad,"  she  said  comfortably,  "it  is  very  strange 

that  I  cannot  see  the  difference,  myself.    How  do  you  see, 

Jerry?    But  I  was  telling  you  about  the  tide,  was  I  not? 

When  Roger  said  that  about  my  mouth  I  tried  to  get  the 

[64] 


FATE    CASTS   HER   DIE 


stain  off,  but  I  could  not,  and  then  Roger  said  it  was  no  use 
trying  any  more  and  he  kissed  me." 

Here  Margarita  paused  and  patted  my  hand,  tapping 
each  ringer  nail  lightly  with  her  own  finger-tips. 

"You  need  not  be  afraid,  Jerry,"  she  added  encouragingly, 
"I  shall  not  tell  any  more  things  about  that." 

I  drew  away  my  hand  irritably.  "  Well,  well,  what  about 
the  tide?"  I  said. 

Margarita's  repulsed  fingers  lay  loosely  upcurled  on  her 
knees,  which  she  hunched  in  front  of  her,  like  a  boy. 

"Oh,  it  was  only  what  you  asked  me,  dear  Jerry,"  she 
answered  softly,  "while  Roger  was  kissing  me  that  kiss, 
the  tide  did  come  in!" 


CHAPTER  VII 
I  RIDE  KNIGHT  ERRANT 

IT  is  easy  to  see  that  I  should  have  made  a  poor  novelist; 
it  has  been  hard  enough  for  me  to  give  you  any  idea  of  scenes 
I  did  not  myself  witness,  even  though  I  had  Roger  and 
Margarita  to  help  me  out  and  an  intimate  knowledge  of 
both  of  them,  and  when  I  try  to  fancy  myself  composing  a 
tissue  of  fictitious  events  "  all  out  of  my  head,"  as  the  children 
say,  my  pen  drops  weakly  out  of  my  fingers,  in  horror  at 
the  very  thought. 

But  now,  thank  heaven,  the  pull  is  over.  From  now  on, 
I  need  tell  only  what  I  knew  and  saw,  in  the  strange,  inter- 
woven life  we  three  have  led.  Three  only?  Nay,  Harriet 
of  the  true  heart,  Harriet  of  the  tender  hand,  could  we  have 
been  three  without  you?  My  fingers  should  wither  before 
they  left  your  name  unwritten. 

I  remember  so  well  the  night  the  telegram  came.  I  had 
been  vexed  all  day.  Everything  had  gone  wrong.  Roger, 
to  meet  whom  I  had  come  back  early  to  town,  had  neither 
turned  up  nor  sent  me  any  message;  the  day  had  been  sick- 
eningly  hot,  with  that  mid-September  heat  that  comes  to  the 
Eastern  States  after  the  first  crisp  days  and  wilts  everything 
and  everybody.  I  found  my  rooms  atrociously  stale  and 
dusty,  and  worse  than  that,  perfectly  useless,  since  by  some 
miracle  of  carelessness  I  had  left  my  keys  behind  me  at  the 
shore  and  hadn't  so  much  as  a  clean  collar  to  look  forward  to. 

The  club  valet  assured  me  that  he  had  received  no  call  for 

trunk  or  bag,  but  that  Roger  had  assuredly  not  entered  the 

house  for  five  days.    I  went  into  his  rooms,  but  they  told  me 

nothing,  and  I,  worse  luck,  should  have  been  lost  in  his 

[66] 


I    RIDE    KNIGHT    ERRANT 

collar,  so  I  glared  angrily  at  the  drawers  of  linen,  wired  for 
my  own  keys  and  made  for  the  Turkish  bath.  There  with  a 
thrill  of  delight  I  discovered  a  complete  change  of  clothing; 
I  had,  before  leaving  for  the  summer,  jumped  hastily  into 
dinner  things,  leaving  a  heap  of  forgotten  garments 
behind  me  and  they  awaited  me  now,  trim  and  creased, 
russet  shoes  polished,  and  a  wine-colored  tie,  a  particular 
favourite  of  mine,  topping  the  fresh  linen.  It  seems  absurd, 
but  I  recall  few  moments  in  my  life  of  such  pure,  heartfelt 
thanksgiving.  The  very  colour  of  life  seemed  changed  for 
me.  I  wonder  if  we  do  well  in  despising  these  small  thrills 
as  we  do?  Surely  enough  of  them  sedulously  preserved  in 
grateful  memory  must  equal  in  intensity  those  great,  theoreti- 
cal moments  we  all  regard  as  our  due  but  so  often  pass 
through  life,  I  am  sure,  without  experiencing. 

However  that  may  be,  the  little  gratifications  of  that  even- 
ing are  graven  in  my  mind,  undoubtedly,  you  will  say,  be- 
cause of  the  startling  climax  for  which  they  were  preparing 
me.  The  clean  tingling  of  my  soapy  scrub,  the  delicious  cool- 
ness of  the  plunge,  the  leisurely,  fresh  dressing  all  caressed 
my  nerves  delightfully.  In  the  plunge  a  pleasant  enough 
fellow  had  accosted  me  and  we  had  splashed  together  con- 
tentedly. I  expected  to  recall  his  name  every  moment,  for 
his  face  was  vaguely  familiar,  but  I  could  not,  and  when  we 
met  in  the  hall  and  went  down  the  steps  together,  it  still 
escaped  me.  We  hesitated  a  bit  on  the  pavement,  and  then 
before  I  realised  it  we  were  hailing  a  hansom  and  bound 
for  dinner  together. 

It  was  a  pleasant  drive  up  along  the  river,  for  a  little  breeze 
had  sprung  up  and  the  watered  asphalt  smelt  cool.  We  were 
both  comfortably  hungry  and  very  placid  after  our  bath  and 
we  chatted  in  a  desultory  sort  of  way,  I,  amused  at  my  utter 
inability  to  place  the  fellow,  he  quite  unconscious,  of  course, 
and  perfectly  certain  of  me.  He  asked  after  Roger,  sym- 
pathised with  our  failure  to  make  connections,  remarked 
to  my  surprise  that  he  had  only  been  out  of  town  for  his 

[67] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


Sundays  (America  had  not  adopted  the  "week-end"  at 
that  time)  and  asked  me,  I  remember,  if  I  knew  anything 
about  a  game  called  basket-ball.  It  seemed  he  was  anxious 
to  find  someone  who  did.  We  drew  up  at  last  to  our  white, 
glistening  little  table  looking  out  over  the  water,  looked 
about  for  possible  friends,  nodded  to  the  head-waiter  and 
ordered  our  dinner.  It  turned  out  that  neither  of  us  had  yet 
celebrated  the  oyster  month,  and  leaving  my  unknown  to 
bespeak  the  blue  points,  for  the  more  conservative  among 
us  clung  to  the  smaller  oyster  then,  I  telephoned  the  club  to 
let  Roger  know  where  to  find  me  in  case  he  should  appear 
there. 

Over  the  soup  my  companion  got  on  to  the  subject — 
somehow — of  evolution,  and  talked  about  it  very  ably  in- 
deed. It  is  absurd,  but  I  shall  never  be  able  to  eat  jellied 
consomme"  as  long  as  I  live  without  connecting  it  with  the 
Saurian  Period!  I  remember  that  those  quaint  and  ap- 
parently highly  important  beasts  lasted  well  into  our  guinea- 
chick  and  lettuce-hearts,  and  I  can  see  him  now,  his  eager, 
dark  face  all  lighted  with  enthusiasm  while  he  spread  may- 
onnaise neatly  over  the  crimson  quarters  of  tomato  on  his 
plate,  and  made  short  nervous  mouthfuls,  in  order  to  talk 
the  better.  Half  amused,  half  interested  I  listened,  trying 
to  place  the  fellow,  but  for  the  life  of  me  I  could  not.  Was  he 
a  scientist,  a  lecturer,  a  magazine  writer,  a  schoolmaster? 
We  finished  with  some  Port  du  Salut  and  Bar-le-duc — an 
admitted  weakness  of  mine — and  I  had  decided  to  regularly 
pump  him  and  find  out  his  name  without  his  guessing  my 
game,  when  he  began  as  I  supposed,  to  help  me  out. 

"Heavens!"  he  said  with  compunction,  "you'll  think  me 
an  awful  bore,  Jerrolds,  but  I've  been  more  or  less  practis- 
ing on  you,  haven't  I?  But  you'll  remember,  perhaps, 
this  used  to  be  a  sort  of  hobby  of  mine,  and  I  work  it  into 
shape  nowadays  for  a  young  men's  club  I'm  running." 

I  yawned  and  lit  a  cigar  and  we  sipped  our  coffee  in  silence. 
The  plates  rattled  around  us,  the  curafoa  in  my  tiny  glass 
[68] 


I    RIDE    KNIGHT   ERRANT 

smelled  sweet  and  strong,  everything  was  natural,  easy,  well 
fed  and  well  groomed  (as  the  phrase  goes  now)  about  me, 
the  day  and  hour  were  like  any  other;  and  yet  from  that 
moment  on  my  life  was  never  to  be  quite  the  same,  for  sur- 
prise and  change  were  hurrying  toward  me,  and  the  man 
opposite — how  curiously ! — was  to  be  drawn  into  the  wide  net 
that  fate  had  sunk  for  me  and  must  have  even  then  been 
preparing  to  draw  smoothly  and  effectively  to  the  surface. 

We  think,  when  we  are  young,  that  we  live  alone.  I  recall, 
as  a  boy  of  twenty,  certain  hot-headed,  despairing  midnight 
walks  when  the  horror  of  my  hopeless,  unapproachable,  un- 
reachable  identity  surged  over  me  in  melancholy  waves. 
Heavens!  I  would  have  plunged  into  a  monastery  if  I  had 
believed  that  any  sort  of  prayer  and  fasting  could  bring  me 
close — really  close — to  God;  for  to  any  human  creature,  I 
had  learned,  I  could  never  be  close.  After  that,  we  grow  into 
that  curious  stage  of  irresponsibility  which  we  deduce  from 
this  loneliness,  and  distress  our  patient  relatives  with  windy 
explanations  of " matters  that  concern  ourselves  alone."  And 
later  still,  if  we  have  the  right  kind  of  women  about  us,  some 
faint  idea  of  the  twisted  net  we  weave — you  and  I  and  the 
other  fellow,  all  together,  whether  we  will  or  no — comes  to 
us,  and  we  stare  awhile  and  then  .  .  .  shrug  our  shoulders 
or  bend  our  knees  or  set  our  jaws,  according  as  we  are  made. 

I  like  to  believe,  now,  that  a  dim  idea  of  what  was  going 
to  happen  was  in  some  mysterious  way  growing  on  me  be- 
fore I  got  the  telegram.  I  am  certain  that  when  the  head- 
waiter  touched  my  arm  and  told  me  I  was  wanted  at  the  tele- 
phone, a  curious  oppression  fell  over  my  hitherto  contented 
after-dinner  spirit  which  grew  into  a  kind  of  excitement  as  I 
made  my  way  to  the  booth.  And  yet  I  expected  nothing 
more  than  to  hear  Roger's  voice  with  some  reasonable 
explanation  of  his  failure  to  meet  me.  It  was  the  night 
porter,  however,  reading  me  a  telegram  missent  to  the  shore 
and  returned  to  the  club. 

"Shall  I  read  it,  sir?" 

[69] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


"Yes,  Richard,  let's  have  it." 

He  mumbled  the  name  of  a  place  I  had  never  heard  of 
and  went  on  in  the  peculiarly  expressionless  style  consecrated 
to  messages,  thus  transmitted. 

"  Please  bring  bag  oj  clothes  and  razors  here  will  meet  train 
arriving  four  thirty  Tuesday  bring  sensible  parson  don't  fail. 
Roger." 

I  stared  at  the  receiver  stupidly.    This  was  Wednesday. 

"That's  crazy,  Richard,"  I  stammered  finally,  "bring 
what?  Read  it  again." 

"It's  quite  plain,  sir,  except  the  town,"  and  again  the 
strange  message  reached  me. 

"Well,"  I  managed  to  get  out,  "it's  clear  he  wants  clothes, 
anyway.  Tell  Hodgson  to  pack  a  complete  change  for  Mr. 
Bradley  and  his  razors.  And  see  if  you  can  find  the  name  of 
the  place  from  the  chief  operator  and  the  correct  message. 
It  can't  be  parson,  of  course.  And  look  up  the  next  train 
for  that  place,  if  you  can,  Richard.  I'll  be  down  there 
directly." 

I  puffed  hard  at  my  dying  cigar  and  went  slowly  back  to  the 
veranda,  trying  to  make  sense  of  that  telegram. 

"No  bad  news,  I  hope?"  my  companion  inquired  kindly, 
for  I  suppose  I  looked  worried. 

"No,"  I  said  slowly,  "only  an  idiotic  sort  of  telegram  from 
Roger.  He  wants  me  to  meet  him  at  some  place  or  other  at 
present  unknown,  and  to  bring  him  his  razors  and  a  sensible 
parson." 

My  unknown  friend  burst  into  a  chuckle  of  laughter. 

"Well,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "you  get  the  razors  and  I'll 
attend  to  the  parson  end  of  it.  Any  special  denomination  ?  " 

I  paid  for  our  dinner  (he  had  insisted  upon  paying  the 
cab)  and  gathered  up  my  hat  and  stick. 

"It's  absurd,"  I  went  on,  "perhaps  he  meant  'person,' 
though  what's  the  point  in  that?  Anyhow  I  must  start 
directly.  There  may  be  a  night  train.  Would  you  rather 
stop  here  a  while  ?  " 


I    RIDE    KNIGHT   ERRANT 

"No,  no,  let  me  see  you  through,"  he  said  good-naturedly, 
"  I'm  interested.  Perhaps  he's  going  to  fight  a  duel  with  the 
razors  and  wants  the  parson  for  the  other  fellow!  Perhaps 
he's  made  a  bet  to  shave  a  parson.  Perhaps " 

But  I  was  in  no  mood  for  joking.  The  telegram,  so  unlike 
Roger,  and  yet  so  unmistakably  his,  in  a  way — I  have  often 
noted  a  curious  characteristic  quality  in  telegrams — worried 
me.  I  wished  I  had  got  it  in  time  to  make  the  train 
he  mentioned.  I  wished  I  were  in  that  mysterious  town. 
Suppose  he  had  depended  on  me  for  it?  Suppose  he 
needed  me? 

We  drove  down  in  silence.  My  man  got  out  with  me  at  the 
club  and  smiled  at  the  Gladstone  the  porter  held  out  to  me. 

"There  are  the  razors,  anyhow,"  he  said. 

Richard  had  the  name  of  the  town  for  me,  too  (the  town 
I  prefer  not  to  tell  you)  and  the  next  train  that  would  make  it: 
it  left  in  fifteen  minutes. 

"And  it  is  parson,  sir — p-a-r-s-o-n:  there's  no  mistake. 
Shall  I  call  you  a  cab,  sir  ?  " 

I  bit  through  my  cigar  with  irritation. 

"In  heaven's  name,"  I  cried,  "how  am  I  to  get  a  sensible 
parson  in  fifteeen  minutes?  In  the  first  place,  I  don't  be- 
lieve there  is  such  a  thing!" 

"Hold  on,  there,"  said  my  friend  suddenly,  "there  is, 
Jerrolds,  for  I'm  one,  and  you  know  it!" 

I  started  at  him.  Who  in  the  devil  was  he  ?  Instinctively 
I  began  an  apology. 

"  I — I  didn't  recall  at  the  moment " 

"Between  you  and  me,"  he  cut  me  short,  "  I'm  just  as  well 
pleased  that  you  didn't,  Jerrolds!  The  sooner  we  get  through 
with  all  this  white  choker  and  black  coat  business,  the  sooner 
we'll  amount  to  something,  in  my  way  of  thinking.  Well, 
seriously — will  I  do?  Do  you  know  anybody  better? 
Because  I'll  go,  if  you  don't." 

I  grasped  his  offered  hand. 

"Heaven  bless  you,"  I  thought,  "whoever  you  are!"  and, 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


"All  right,"  I  said  shortly,  "it's  very  kind  of  you.  We'll 
have  to  hurry,  I'm  afraid." 

We  had  just  time  to  jump  for  the  last  platform.  I  remem- 
ber apostrophising  the  Gladstone  rather  strongly  as  I  fell 
on  its  metal  clasp,  and  glancing  apologetically  at  my  com- 
panion, but  he  was  tactfully  deaf,  and  we  found  a  seat  to- 
gether, by  good  luck,  and  settled  down  for  our  hot  and  tire- 
some night. 

I  couldn't  very  well  ask  his  name  by  that  time,  it  would 
have  been  too  absurd.  I  trusted  to  Roger  to  get  me  out 
of  that  difficulty,  for  he  knew  Roger,  evidently,  and  me  too, 
though  not  very  well,  I  judged.  He  certainly  wasn't  in  my 
college  class,  for  it  would  have  come  up,  I  was  sure,  in  our 
talk.  Not  that  we  talked  much.  It  was  a  stuffy,  disagreeable 
ride,  and  I  was  alternately  vexed  with  Roger  and  worried 
about  him.  In  a  hopelessly  foolish  manner  I  connected  the 
razors  and  the  parson,  too  closely  for  any  reasonable  inference 
in  regard  to  the  latter.  I  knew  the  connection  was  ridiculous 
but  it  was  persistent,  and  as  I  had  lost  all  hope  of  placing  the 
man  sitting  beside  me,  my  mind  was  altogether  in  a  horrid 
muddle.  Once  he  asked  me  abruptly  if  Roger  were  an  Epis- 
copalian. 

"No,"  I  answered,  "he — his  people  are  Unitarians." 

"I'm  a  Congregationalist,  as  you  know,  of  course,"  he 
went  on,  "but  if  it  makes  no  more  difference  to  Roger  than 
it  will  to  me,  there'll  be  no  trouble." 

"Anyone  would  suppose  he  was  going  to  christen  Roger," 
I  thought  disgustedly  and  returned  to  my  troublesome 
thoughts,  replying  absently  that  it  would  be  all  right,  of 
course. 

We  changed  cars  at  S and  got  into  a  queer  little  local 

train  filled  with  young  village  roughs,  whose  noisy  horseplay 
annoyed  me  exceedingly.  My  mysterious  parson,  however, 
was  deeply  interested  in  them  and  related  incident  after 
incident  in  proof  of  what  could  be  accomplished  with  this 
offensive  part  of  the  rural  population  by  social  organisation 
[72] 


I    RIDE    KNIGHT   ERRANT 

under  competent  direction.  He  even  got  out  an  old  letter 
and  proved  to  me  on  the  back  of  it,  with  a  stub  of  a  pencil, 
what  a  pitiful  outlay  in  money  was  sufficient  to  start  a  prac- 
tical boys'  club,  including  the  rent  of  a  second-hand  piano, 
to  be  purchased  ultimately  on  the  instalment  plan.  In  the 
midst  of  this  lecture  (it  was  no  less)  I  fell  asleep,  uncomfort- 
ably and  rudely,  and  it  was  he  who  shook  me  awake  at  last 
and  carried  the  bag  out  of  the  close  car. 


73] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  MISTS  OF  EDEN 

THE  station  lights  flared  pale  in  the  coming  dawn.  Be- 
hind the  barred  window  of  the  ticket-office,  which  con- 
tained, as  its  bright  lamp  showed,  a  tumbled  cot  bed  and  a 
dilapidated  arm-chair,  a  tousled  young  man  sat  playing 
Patience  in  his  nightshirt  on  the  telegraph  table.  We 
battered  on  his  window,  and  to  our  amazement  he  nodded 
casually  and  entirely  without  surprise  at  us,  reached  into  a 
corner  of  his  littered  room,  grasped  a  pair  of  oars,  and, 
pushing  up  the  window,  poked  them  out  at  us  between  the 
bars. 

"Mr.  Jerrolds,  I  guess,"  he  remarked.  "Mr.  Bradley's 
left  the  boat  for  you  at  the  foot  of  the  dock,  little  ways  across 
the  track  there.  It's  kind  of  a  blue  boat.  You  just  sight  the 
two  reefs  and  the  bell  buoy  and  when  you're  just  opposite 
of  the  buoy,  turn  about  and  make  for  the  shore.  There's 
a  white  pole  where  you  land." 

"Have  you  been  sitting  up — "  I  began,  but  he  cut  me 
short  impatiently. 

"No,  I  have  insomnia — it's  something  dreadful  the  way 
I  have  it,"  he  explained.  "  I'm  always  sitting  up." 

I  accepted  the  oars  mechanically. 

"And  where  is  Mr.  Bradley  stopping?"  I  asked. 

"Why,  over  to  Miss  Prynne's.  He  met  the  afternoon  train 
yest'day  and  the  deaf  an'  dumb  feller  rowed  over  to-day, 
and  when  you  didn't  turn  up  he  left  the  oars.  I  tell  you, 
he  knows  more'n  you  might  think,  to  look  at  him." 

"Was— is  Mr.  Bradley  well?"  I  asked. 

[74] 


THE    MISTS   OF   EDEN 


"He  looked  to  be  well  enough  yest'day,"  said  the  insomniac 
indifferently,  "big  feller,  ain't  he?" 

I  shouldered  the  oars,  and  followed  by  my  sensible  parson 
with  the  bag,  made  for  the  untidy  wharf  through  the  silent 
village.  The  blue  boat  was  not  hard  to  discover  in  the  pale, 
ghostly  light;  the  bay  was  hardly  rippled;  it  was  to  be 
another  hot,  sticky  day.  My  companion  begged  the  privilege 
of  the  oars. 

"My  old  game,  you  know,"  he  added  apologetically,  and 
swept  us  out  on  the  black,  mysterious  water  with  beautiful, 
clean  strokes.  He  had  soon  marked  down  the  buoy  and 
was  regretting  that  it  would  be  only  a  matter  of  twenty  min- 
utes before  we  must  land. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  added  with  a  boyish  sort  of  smile,  "all 
this  is  a  real  adventure  to  me,  Jerrolds,  and  I  can't  help 
enjoying  it.  It  can't  be  serious,  you  see — Roger's  well. 
Perhaps" — and  he  shot  a  curious  glance  at  me — "perhaps 
he's  going  to  be  married!" 

I  laughed  a  little  stiffly.  It  was  difficult  to  explain  to  this 
sensible  parson  that  Bradleys  did  not  marry  in  this  fashion; 
it  wasn't  quite  complimentary  to  him.  Moreover  I  didn't 
know  whether  he  would  be  sensible  enough  to  understand 
what  two  or  three  of  Roger's  friends  knew  very  well — that 
he  was  unlikely  to  marry  so  long  as  Sue  Paynter  remained 
above  ground.  It  had  been  simple  enough,  that  affair:  Sue 
and  Roger  had  been  engaged  ten  years  before  the  time  of 
which  I  am  writing,  they  were  within  a  few  months  of  the 
wedding,  and  Frederick  Paynter,  her  cousin,  had  come  back 
from  Germany,  playing  Chopin  like  a  demi-god,  and  had 
whirled  her  off  her  feet  in  a  fortnight.  She  broke  off  the 
engagement  in  a  rather  cruel  way,  it  seemed  to  me — by 
telephone — and  Roger  hung  up  the  receiver  (I  myself 
heard  him  answer  slowly,  "Very  well,  dear.  I  see.  Good- 
bye.") and  went  to  Algiers  with  me.  When  we  came  back 
they  were  married  and  he  was  having  a  great  success,  play- 
ing before  Royalty  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

[75] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


I  think  it  took  Sue  about  a  month  to  find  out  what  any  of 
her  men  friends  could  have  told  her  in  six  seconds,  and  after 
that  she  kept  him  in  Europe  as  much  as  she  could.  She  kept 
up  pretty  well  for  three  or  four  years,  but  at  last  she  came 
back  with  her  two  delicate  babies  and  satisfied  everybody's 
sense  of  propriety  by  nursing  Frederick  while  he  stayed  in 
America  and  dining  out  with  him  twice  a  season  before  he 
returned  to  Europe.  It  was  all  very  regrettable  and  Sarah 
would  discuss  it  in  her  tactful  way  from  time  to  time  till,  if 
I  had  been  Roger,  I  should  have  choked  her.  Sue  would 
not  listen  to  a  separation,  even,  and  insisted  that  Freder- 
ick sent  her  plenty  of  money,  which  Roger  invested  for  her, 
and  old  Madam  Bradley  had  her  often  with  them  in  Boston. 
Roger  never  discussed  it;  he  didn't  need  to.  But  I  never  knew 
him  to  be  out  of  Boston  or  New  York  if  the  Paynters  were 
there  together,  and  I  remarked  that  he  invariably  left  word 
tvhere  he  could  be  reached,  day  or  night,  when  Frederick 
was  playing  a  series  of  concerts. 

All  this  ran  through  my  mind  as  we  cut  through  the  water 
and  the  sky  grew  paler  by  degrees  and  the  stars  faded  out. 
We  were  opposite  the  buoy  now,  dark  amongst  the  dark 
waves,  and  we  turned  at  right  angles  and  made  for  the  shore. 
The  tide  was  high  and  we  glided  over  the  inner  reef  easily. 
Soon  we  could  see  the  eaves  of  the  cottage  dimly,  a  cock 
crowed  sleepily,  the  white  pole  pointed  out  some  rough  steps 
cut  in  the  rocks  ahead. 

That  sudden  sense  of  excitement  grew  in  me  again,  a 
nervous  longing  to  get  hold  of  Roger,  to  get  away  from  my 
oarsman,  for  I  was  worried  out  of  all  reason.  He,  to  my 
satisfaction,  at  this  moment  proposed  a  separation. 

"I  haven't  had  half  enough  of  this,"  he  said  suddenly, 
"why  don't  you  land,  Jerrolds,  if  you  feel  you  ought  to — 
though  I  don't  see  how  we  can  descend  on  Miss  Prynne  or 
anybody  else  at  this  unearthly  hour — and  I'll  pull  about 
for  a  while  ?  I  don't  doubt  you'd  rather  see  Roger  alone, 
anyhow,  at  first.  When  you  want  me,  just  give  me  a  hail — 
[76] 


THE    MISTS   OF   EDEN 


I  won't  be  far.  And  tell  him  to  have  plenty  of  breakfast, 
will  you?" 

I  agreed  warmly  to  this  and  clambered  up  the  slippery 
steps,  still  possessed  by  the  same  muffled  excitement.  The 
beach  was  hard  as  a  floor  under  me  and  I  almost  ran  along 
it  toward  the  sanded  cottage.  The  merest  glance  at  it  showed 
that  no  one  watched  there;  the  windows  were  dark.  I 
skirted  the  rocky  wall  that  protected  its  back  and  sides;  no 
one  was  stirring  in  stable  or  outhouse.  On  the  shore  side  a 
straggling  grass  stretch  ran  down  to  a  sheltered,  inland  bay; 
a  fair  sized  vegetable  garden,  glistening  with  dew,  and  a  few 
fruit  trees  gave  a  domestic  air  to  the  place,  utterly  unguessed 
from  the  forbidding  sea  front.  I  wandered  toward  this  little 
bay  and  sat  in  a  delightful  natural  chair  of  rock  to  wait  for  the 
sunrise. 

I  must  have  lost  myself  for  a  few  minutes,  for  when  I 
opened  my  eyes  everything  before  them  was  changed,  as 
completely  as  the  scene  shifters  change  a  stage  picture. 
The  little  bay  was  crowded  with  rolling  seas  of  white,  thick 
mist,  like  an  Alpine  lake.  Billow  on  billow  it  rolled  in, 
faintly  luminous  here  and  there,  breaking  as  smoke  breaks, 
on  the  beach.  As  I  stared,  lost  in  the  beauty  of  it,  two  great 
gold  arrows  from  the  sun  behind  me  cut  into  the  thickest  of 
it  and  tore  it  like  a  curtain,  and  in  the  rent  appeared  two 
human  figures,  walking  as  it  might  be  on  clouds  to  earth. 
More  than  mortal  tall  they  loomed  in  the  mist,  and  no  mar- 
bles I  have  ever  seen — not  even  that  Wonder  of  Melos — 
is  so  immortally  lovely  as  they  were.  The  woman  wore 
a  veil  of  crimson  vine-leaves  that  wound  about  her  hips  and 
dropped  on  one  side  nearly  to  her  knee,  around  the  man's 
neck  a  great  lock  of  her  long  hair  lay  loose  and  on  his  head 
a  rough  wreath  of  the  red  leaves  shone  in  the  arrow  of 
sunlight.  Beside  them  a  monstrous  hound  appeared  sud- 
denly: a  trailing  vine  dripped  like  blood  from  his  great  jowl. 

I  could  not  have  told  what  she  looked  like  to  save  my  life: 
she  was  what  the  world  means  when  it  says  woman — beau- 

[77] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


tiful,  certainly,  but  no  one  person.  One  arm  was  on  his 
shoulder,  the  other  hand  lay  on  the  animal's  head;  the 
mist  covered  their  feet  and  they  appeared  as  aerial,  as  unreal 
as  figures  in  some  Assumption.  But  they  were  not  through 
with  earth,  not  they:  they  were  humanity  triumphant — 
the  very  crown  and  flower  of  creation.  They  came  up  from 
the  sea  with  the  grave,  contented  smile  of  the  old  gods  on 
their  faces.  Nature,  working  patiently  at  her  Saurians,  had 
had  this  in  her  mind  from  the  beginning,  and  I  believed  in 
that  moment  that  God  had  indeed  allowed  her  to  perfect 
her  last  work  in  His  image!  For  perhaps  three  heart-beats 
I  saw  them  there,  framed  in  the  luminous  mist,  and  then  it 
rolled  over  them,  swiftly,  silently,  and  wiped  them  out,  and 
I  stumbled  from  the  rock-seat  and  ran  back  across  the  beach, 
a  great  lump  stiffening  my  throat  and  a  hard,  frightened 
jealousy  nearly  stifling  me,  to  my  shame  and  surprise. 

For  I  had  known  Roger  twenty-five  years  and  yet  I 
had  never  had  the  least  idea  of  the  man! 


78] 


PART    THREE 


IN  WHICH  THE  STREAM  JOINS  WITH  OTHERS 


AND  PLUNGES  DOWN  A  CLIFF 


He's  left  his  flocks,  his  fields,  his  kine, 
He's  left  his  folk  and  friends  and  all, 
He's  off  to  watch  the  cold  sea  shine, 
To  brew  for  aye  the  salt  sea  brine, 
The  mermaid  hath  Sir  Hugh  in  thrall. 

Sir  Hugh  and  the  Mermaiden. 


[79] 


CHAPTER  .IX 
MARGARITA  MEETS  THE  ENEMY  AND  HE  IS  HERS 

1  FLUNG  myself  down  on  the  beach  behind  a  big  rock,  so 
that  I  was  completely  cut  off  from  the  cottage,  and  stared  at 
the  sun  rising,  though  it  might  as  well  have  been  the  moon  for 
all  my  appreciation  of  it.  So  this  was  it!  No  wonder  he 
wanted  a  parson — it  was  high  time,  I  thought  virtuously. 
It  cut  me  that  he  had  never  hinted  this  to  me;  that  we,  who 
had  had  no  secrets  from  each  other  for  so  many  years  (as  I 
thought)  had  really  been  divided  by  this,  for  what  I  in- 
ferred had  been  a  long  time.  And  yet  a  moment's  consider- 
ation brought  home  to  me  the  almost  certainty  that  it  couldn't 
have  been  so  very  long,  after  all.  There  had  been,  especially 
in  the  last  year,  weeks  and  even  months  when  Roger  and  I 
had  not  been  separated  for  eight  hours  at  a  stretch.  He 
chose  to  work  hard  in  the  typical  American  fashion;  I  was 
obliged  to.  And  I  knew  his  attitude  toward  the  sort  of  liaison 
we  both  despised.  He  had  laboured  enough  and  disgustedly 
enough  at  dragging  a  weak-kneed  cousin  of  his  (the  black 
sheep  that  few  large  families  dispense  with)  out  of  a  connec- 
tion of  that  kind.  And  anyhow,  I  knew  that  people  who  wore 
when  they  were  together  the  look  I  had  seen  on  those  two 
visions  of  the  mist  could  never  be  contented  apart! 

Well,  well,  it  was  a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  for  me,  and  I 
had  to  get  over  it  as  best  I  could,  alone.  Women  are  usually 
credited  with  a  practical  monopoly  of  jealousy  of  their  own 
sex,  but  wrongly,  I  am  sure.  We  learn  earlier  to  conceal  it 
and,  better  still,  realise  the  necessity  for  keeping  quiet  about 
it  and  getting  over  it.  The  clock  continues  to  strike,  and 

[81] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


one's  friends  continue  to  marry,  and  one  continues  to  present 
silver  mugs  to  one's  god-children — voilb  tout\ 

I  suppose  the  worry  and  strain  of  it  all,  the  hot,  stuffy, 
sleepless  night  and  the  sudden  shock  at  the  last  had  tired  me, 
for  as  I  lay  on  the  beach,  sheltered  by  the  rock,  with  just 
enough  of  the  warm  sun  at  my  back  for  comfort,  I  went  off 
into  a  doze  and  lost  myself  completely.  I  may  have  slept  two 
hours,  and  woke  with  that  perfectly  definite  sensation  of  some 
one's  being  by  and  staring  at  me  that  disturbs  one's  deepest 
dreams. 

Sitting  Turk  fashion  on  the  sand  near  me  was  a  beautiful 
young  woman  with  great  deep  set  grey  eyes  and  two  braids 
of  long  dark  hair,  one  falling  over  either  shoulder.  Her  skin 
was  dark,  nearly  olive,  and  her  mouth  was  of  that  deep, 
dark  red  that  has  always  seemed  to  me  so  much  more  allur- 
ing than  all  the  coral  lips  of  poetry  and  convention.  She 
was  oddly  attired  in  a  short,  faded  blue  serge  skirt  and  a 
dull  red  jacket  of  the  sort  called  at  that  sartorial  epoch  a 
"jersey."  Tied  around  the  neck  of  this  was  a  black  silk 
handkerchief.  Black  stockings,  generously  displayed,  and 
worn  white  tennis  shoes  completed  her  costume — a  trying 
one,  certainly,  and,  one  would  have  supposed,  sufficiently 
prejudicial  in  my  eyes,  who  have  always  had  a  confessed 
preference  for  the  charm  of  well-selected  clothes,  and  a  cer- 
tain critical  judgment  in  that  direction,  I  am  told. 

But  Margarita  would  have  moulded  a  suit  of  chain-armour, 
I  believe,  to  her  personality.  It  was  quite  obvious  that  she 
wore  no  corset,  for  the  tight  jersey  clung  to  her  round,  firm 
bust  and  long,  supple  waist  like  a  glove.  Her  shoulders  were, 
perhaps,  a  little  shade  squared,  which  only  added  to  the  boy- 
ishness of  the  enchanting  pose  of  her  head,  and  the  loose 
handkerchief  gave  the  last  touch  to  the  daintily  hardy 
fisher  girl  she  seemed  to  have  chosen  for  her  masquerade. 
For  there  was  nothing  of  the  peasant  about  her;  race  showed 
in  every  feature,  and  the  dim,  toned  colours  of  her  faded 
clothes  appeared  the  last  touch  of  realistic  art. 
[82] 


MARGARITA    MEETS   THE    ENEMY 

"You  must  wake,  now,"  she  said  gravely,  "and  tell  me 
if  you  are  Jerry — are  you?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  am.    And  you  are ?  " 

"I  am  Margarita,"  she  said.  "Did  you  bring  some  one 
who  knows  how  to  marry  people  ?  Roger  said  you  would." 

"I  brought  him — he's  out  there,"  I  answered,  pointing 
to  the  ocean  generally. 

She  followed  my  arm  with  interest  in  her  eyes.  "Oh! 
Is  that  where  he  will  do  it  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Roger  did  not  tell 
me  that.  Is  he  swimming?" 

"I  think  not,"  I  answered  seriously,  "I  think  he  is  in  a 
boat." 

"I  am  glad  of  that,"  she  remarked,  "because  I  cannot 
swim,  myself.  And  I  must  be  with  Roger,  you  know,  when  we 
are  being  married." 

"It  is  usual,"  I  admitted.  I  was  really  only  half  aware  of 
the  extraordinary  character  of  our  conversation.  Every  one 
became  primitive  in  talking  with  Margarita  and  fell,  more 
or  less,  into  her  style  of  discourse. 

"Have  you  been  married?"  she  asked  placidly,  her  grave, 
lovely  eyes  full  on  mine.  She  sat  quite  motionless,  her  hands 
loose  in  her  lap,  neither  twiddling  them  aimlessly  nor  pre- 
tending to  employ  them  in  the  hundred  nervous  ways  com- 
mon to  her  sex. 

"No." 

"Neither  have  I.  Neither  has  Roger.  But  many  people 
have.  It  cannot  be  hard." 

"Oh,  no!  I  believe  it  is  the  simplest  thing  in  the  world," 
I  said,  eyeing  her  narrowly.  Was  she  teasing  me?  I 
wondered. 

"So  Roger  says,"  she  agreed  with  obvious  relief.  "It  is 
only  talking.  I  cannot  see  why  Roger  could  not  learn  to  do 
it  himself.  Can  you  not  do  it,  either?" 

I  shook  my  head.  I  was  trying  to  believe  that  she  was  not 
quite  sane,  but  it  was  impossible.  Her  mind,  I  could  have 
sworn,  was  as  vigourous  as  my  own,  though  there  was  a 

[83] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


difference,  evidently.  The  precise,  beautiful  articulation 
of  her  English  gave  me  a  new  direction.  She  must  be  a 
foreigner — Italian,  for  choice,  in  spite  of  her  English  eyes. 

"Marrying  people  is  a  business  like  any  other,  Miss — I 
did  not  hear  your  last  name?"  I  ventured. 

"I  have  none,"  she  said.  "I  mean,"  correcting  herself, 
"Roger  says  that  I  must  have  one,  of  course,  but  I  do  not 
happen  to  have  heard  it,"  she  added  calmly. 

"Ah,  well,"  I  said  coldly,  "it  is  a  mere  detail." 

I  was  seriously  vexed  with  Roger.  This  young  woman 
passed  belief.  I  decided  that  she  was  an  actress  of  the  first 
water  and  resented  being  imposed  upon. 

"It  is  the  same  with  my  age — how  old  I  am,"  she  con- 
tinued. "Roger  thinks  I  am  twenty  years  of  age.  Do 
you?  He  is  going  to  ask  you." 

"Really,  I  can't  say,"  I  returned  shortly,  "I  am  a  poor 
judge  of  women's  ages — or  characters,"  I  added  pointedly. 

She  did  not  blush  nor  move.  Only  her  eyes  widened 
slightly  and  darkened. 

"Roger  will  ask  you,"  she  repeated  and  I  felt,  unreason- 
ably, as  it  seemed  to  me  then,  that  my  tone  had  hurt  her,  as 
one's  tone,  utterly  incomprehensible  as  the  words  it  utters 
may  be,  will  hurt  a  child. 

She  sat  in  silence  for  a  moment,  and  I,  curiously  eager  for 
her  next  remark  and  conscious  suddenly  of  that  strange,  muf- 
fled excitement  that  had  oppressed  me  a  few  hours  before, 
watched  her  closely,  gathering  handfuls  of  sand  and  spilling 
them  over  my  knee. 

"Did  you  ever  go  to  Broadway? "  she  began  again. 

"I  have,  yes." 

"  I  did,  too,"  she  assured  me  eagerly.  "  I  think  it  is  beauti- 
ful. I  should  like  to  live  there,  should  not  you?  Perhaps," 
hopefully,  "you  do  live  there?" 

"No,"  I  said,  still  on  my  guard  and  uncomfortable, 
"  I  don't.  Are  you  planning  to  live  there  after  you  are  mar- 
ried ?  "  She  shook  her  head  regretfully. 

[84] 


MARGARITA  MEETS  THE   ENEMY 

"I  am  afraid  not,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  dropped  a  full 
third  and  coloured  with  a  most  absurd  and  exquisite  sombre 
quality,  as  Duse's  used  to  in  La  Dame  aux  Camellias. 
"Roger  would  not  want  to.  He  will  not  want  me  to  walk 
there  very  much,  either.  And  that  is  very  strange,  because 
there  is  where  I  first  saw  him.  But  there  are  places  I  shall 
like  quite  as  well,  he  says,  and  he  will  take  me  there.  Will 
you  come,  too  ?  " 

"I  am  afraid,"  I  replied  drily,  "that  I  might  be  a  little 
de  trap,  perhaps.  Roger  might  not  care  for  my  society  under 
those  circumstances." 

Again  she  answered  my  tone  rather  than  my  words. 

"Roger  loves  you,"  she  said  simply. 

"He  used  to,"  I  returned — inexcusably.  Oh,  yes!  utterly 
inexcusably. 

Again  her  eyes  widened  and  grew  dark,  and  this  time  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  curved  down  pitifully,  and  I  felt  a 
strange  heaviness  at  my  heart. 

"You  do  not  love  me,  do  you,  Jerry?"  she  said,  and  now 
her  voice  dropped  a  good  fifth  and  thrilled  like  the  plucked 
string  of  a  violoncello,  and  my  nerves  vibrated  to  it  and 
tingled  in  my  wrists. 

"Roger  said  you  would,  and  I  thought  you  would — and 
you  do  not,"  she  said  sadly. 

I  clenched  a  handful  of  the  moist  sand  and  leaned  toward 
her,  my  heart  pounding  furiously. 

"Are  you  sorry?"  I  muttered  unsteadily,  fixing  my  eyes 
on  hers. 

She  met  them  fully.  Like  great  grey  pools  they  were,  her 
eyes,  honest  as  mountain  springs,  clear  as  rain.  They  caught 
me  and  held  me  and  drenched  me  in  their  innocent,  warm 
sweetness;  there  was  not  one  thought  in  her  head,  not  one 
corner  in  her  heart  that  I  was  not  free  to  know.  Those  eyes 
had  never  held  a  secret  since  they  opened  into  a  world  that 
had  never,  to  her  knowledge,  deceived  her.  They  swam  in 
light,  and  oh,  the  depths  on  depths  of  love  that  one  could 

[85] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


sound  there!  My  last  hateful  anchor  broke  clean  off  and 
my  heart  slipped  from  the  stupid  rocks  of  suspicion  and  self- 
protection  and  jealousy,  and  floated  away  on  the  bosom  of 
that  sweet,  disturbing  flood.  I  forgot  Roger,  I  forgot  what 
had  been  myself;  in  that  instant,  in  the  utter  surrender  of  her 
innocent  eyes,  she  became  for  me  all  at  once  the  vision  I  had 
seen  in  the  mist  again,  the  thing  we  mean  when  we  say  wo- 
man— but  now  she  was  one  single  special  woman,  the 
vision  and  the  flesh-and-blood  reality  together. 

"Are  you  sorry?"  I  said  again,  and  my  voice  was  not  my 
own. 

She  smiled  at  me  till  I  caught  my  breath.  "Not  now, 
Jerry,"  she  said  softly,  "because  you  do  love  me,  now." 

The  sand  fell,  a  tightly  moulded  shape,  out  of  my  hand,  and 
I  wrenched  my  eyes  away  from  her.  They  smarted  and 
stung,  but  the  pain  relieved  me  and  cleared  my  brain, 
and  I  knew  suddenly  what  I  have  known  ever  since  and  shall 
know  till  I  die.  There  on  the  beach,  before  I  had  so  much 
as  touched  her  hand,  I  had  fallen  senselessly  and  hopelessly 
and  everlastingly  in  love  with  Margarita. 


[86] 


CHAPTER  X 

FATE  SPREADS  AN  ISLAND  FEAST 

I  DON'T  know  how  long  we  sat  silent  on  the  beach.  Such 
silence  was  never  embarrassing  to  her,  because  it  seemed 
perfectly  normal  and  usual,  and  I  was  too  busy  with  my 
thoughts  to  feel  any  sense  of  restraint.  And  yet  they  were 
hardly  thoughts:  my  head  whirled  in  a  confusion  of  regret 
and  desire,  and  one  moment  my  blood  ran  warm  with  the 
joy  of  my  discovery,  and  the  next  a  horrid  chill  crept  over 
me  as  I  saw  my  empty  years — for  if  she  might  not  fill  them, 
no  one  else  should.  At  last  I  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Are  you  hungry ? "  Margarita  asked  pleasantly.  " When 
I  am  hungry  I  do  that  very  often.  If  you  will  come  now, 
we  will  have  our  breakfast." 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  with  the  lithe  ease  of  a  boy  and  held 
out  her  hand  to  me.  I  took  it  and  we  walked  thus  across  the 
beach  to  the  cottage,  and  during  that  walk,  with  her  firm, 
warm  hand  fast  in  mine  and  her  clean,  elastic  step  beside 
me,  I  swore  to  myself  that  neither  she  nor  Roger  should  ever 
regret  what  she  had  done  to  me,  nor  know  it,  if  I  could  keep 
the  knowledge  from  them.  The  last  part  of  this  vow  was 
impossible  of  fulfillment,  finally,  but  the  first,  thank  God! 
has  never  been  broken,  or  even  for  a  moment  strained,  and  I 
like  to  hope  that  this  may  count  a  little  to  my  credit,  in  the 
ultimate  auditing,  for  she  was  terribly  alluring,  this  Marga- 
rita, and  I  am  no  more  a  stock  or  a  stone  than  other  men,  I 
fancy. 

We  walked  around  to  the  shore  side  of  the  cottage  and 
there  stood  Roger  on  its  weather-beaten  veranda,  his  hand 

[87] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


held  out  to  me  eagerly,  an  anxious,  an  almost  wistful  look 
in  his  honest  blue  eyes.  He  was  unusually  but  not  unbecom- 
ingly dressed  in  faded  blue  serge  trousers,  too  tight  for  the 
dictates  of  fashion,  but  quite  telling  in  their  revelation  of 
his  magnificent  thighs,  tucked  into  very  high  wading  boots 
and  topped  by  a  grey  flannel  blouse  open  at  the  neck  for 
comfort,  with  a  twisted  dull  green  handkerchief  by  way  of  a 
collar.  It  was  really  quite  picturesque  altogether,  and 
suited  him  excellently,  as  all  rough-and-ready,  notably 
masculine  attire  has  always  done.  Curiously  enough,  he 
combines  with  this,  when  in  evening  clothes,  the  least  re- 
semblance to  a  head-waiter  I  have  ever  observed  in  an  Amer- 
ican; the  price  they  pay,  I  suppose,  for  being  quite  the  best 
dressed  business  and  professional  men  in  the  world. 

I  took  all  this  in,  of  course,  in  a  fraction  of  the  time  it 
takes  to  write  it,  and  also  the  fact  that  old  Roger  looked 
ten  years  younger  than  when  I  had  last  seen  him.  He  had 
always  been  a  steady,  responsible  fellow,  you  see,  one  of  the 
men  people  put  things  on,  and  not  particularly  youthful 
for  his  age:  a  great  help  to  him  as  a  budding  young  lawyer. 

But  now  I  saw  the  eyes  we  used  to  see  on  the  football  field 
in  New  Haven,  and  even,  it  seemed  to  me  for  a  moment,  the 
little  worried  yet  patient  intentness  I  knew  so  well  at  school 
when  some  one  of  those  tiny  climaxes  (that  seemed  so  terrible 
then!)  depended  on  him  for  a  fair  solution.  They  used  to  say 
so  clearly,  those  honest  eyes,  that  he  hoped  you  agreed  with 
him  and  that  you  felt  his  way  was  the  best  way,  but  that 
whether  or  not  you  agreed,  he  would  have  to  do  it,  all  the 
same. 

He  had,  as  I  say,  his  hand  out,  and  I  quickly  put  mine 
into  it,  somehow  or  other  not  losing  Margarita's  at  the  same 
time.  As  unconsciously  as  a  child  she  reached  out  her  other 
hand  to  him  and  we  stood  like  boys  and  girls  in  a  ring-game, 
Roger  and  I  looking  deep  into  each  other's  eyes  and  holding 
Margarita  tightly. 

"Is  it  all  right,  Jerry?"  he  asked  me  earnestly. 
[88] 


FATE  SPREADS  AN    ISLAND  FEAST 

"  It's  all  right  if  you  say  so,  Roger,"  I  answered  promptly. 
All  our  friendship  was  packed  into  that  question  and  answer, 
and  I  like  to  think  that  I  never  asked  any  explanations  and 
that  he  never  thought  of  giving  any  till  they  were  more  or 
less  unnecessary,  the  matter  being  settled. 

"You're  not  alone,  I  hope?"  he  said  as  we  moved,  one 
each  side  of  Margarita,  into  the  house.  I  dropped  her  hand 
abruptly.  Up  to  that  moment  I  had  completely  forgotten  my 
sensible  parson. 

"Not  unless  he's  given  me  up  and  rowed  back  to  the  town," 
I  assured  him  contritely,  "and  I  hope  to  heaven  you  know 
who  he  is,  for  I  don't!  He's  a  thoroughly  good  fellow, 
anyhow,  and  he  knows  us,  and  from  what  I've  seen  of  him 
he  strikes  me  as  just  about  the  man  we  want." 

"Thank  you  for  that  'we,'  Jerry,"  said  Roger  soberly, 
putting  his  arm  over  my  shoulder,  and  I  realised  suddenly 
and  completely  that  I  had  taken  the  jump  and  cleared  my 
last  ditch:  Roger's  interest  in  to-day's  event,  for  good  or 
bad,  was  mine. 

"I'll  run  and  call  him,"  I  began,  "and  mind  you  mention 
his  name  directly,  for  it's  a  bit  awkward  for  me  all  this 
while."  Something  struck  me  and  I  turned  back. 

"By  the  way,"  I  tried  to  say  easily,  "do  you  want  me  to — 
to  begin  any  explanations?" 

He  laughed  shortly. 

"Good  old  Jerry!"  he  said  affectionately.  "No,  I'll 
manage  that  when  I  find  out  who  he  is.  Hurry  him  along, 
for  breakfast  is  ready." 

I  dashed  off  to  the  landing  and  hailed  the  boat,  now  plainly 
visible  on  the  bright,  clear  moving  sea.  She  flew  in  like  a 
swallow,  the  oarsman  coat  off  and  dripping,  and  evidently 
royally  content. 

"Has  Roger  got  a  change  for  me  ?"  he  called  as  he  reached 
the  landing.  "  I  won't  keep  him  ten  minutes  longer,  but  I'd 
like  to  go  over  the  side  here,  tremendously." 

I,  too,  had  begun  to  be  conscious  of  a  wrinkled,  cinder- 

[89] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


coated  feeling,  and  Roger,  who  had  followed  me  at  a  distance, 
turned  at  my  shout  and  ran  back  to  the  cottage,  returning 
with  a  white  armful  of  linen  and  towels  just  as  we  had 
slipped  into  the  blue,  cold  water.  I  shall  never  forget  his 
expression  of  mingled  relief,  real  pleasure  and  amusement 
as  he  recognised  my  companion's  face,  bobbing  upon  the 
surface. 

"This  is  mighty  good  of  you,  Elder,"  he  said  simply,  and 
reached  down  from  the  slippery  stone  to  shake  the  dripping 
hand  held  out  to  him. 

Then  it  came  to  me  in  a  flash.  Tip  Elder,  of  course! 
He  was  supposed  to  have  been  christened  Tyler,  but  was 
never  known  by  any  other  name  than  Tippecanoe,  for  rea- 
sons clearer  in  those  days  than  these,  the  old  political  war 
cry  in  connection  with  his  boating  fame  having  proved  too 
temptingly  obvious  to  the  rest  of  his  class  crew.  He  was  in 
Roger's  class;  I  remembered  how,  even  then,  he  had  dragged 
Roger  down  to  some  boys'  club  of  his  to  give  a  boxing 
lesson  once  to  some  of  his  proteges.  He  and  Russell  Dodge 
had  a  notable  and  historic  quarrel  once  because  Tip  had 
refused  to  break  an  engagement  in  order  to  take  one  of 
Russell's  many  feminine  incumbrances  to  a  dance.  Tip 
had  steadily  refused  to  accept  the  obligation,  and  had  en- 
dured very  patiently  a  vast  amount  of  hectoring  from  Russell, 
who  was  then  as  now  a  trifle  snobbish  and  unsteady;  but 
had  finally  been  forced  (or  so  we  regarded  it,  at  that  hot  and 
touchy  period)  to  accept  what  was  practically  a  challenge, 
and  we  were  actually  on  tiptoe  for  a  duel.  Feeling  ran  high 
about  it,  and  there  might  have  been  a  very  disagreeable 
scandal  had  not  Tip's  clear  common  sense  and  persuasive 
oratory  burst  out  at  the  last  possible  minute  from  this 
murky  thunder-cloud  and  effectively  swept  the  whole  busi- 
ness out  of  the  way. 

But  none  of  his  prayer  meetings,  nor  the  trip  to  the  Holy 
Land  that  he  made  in  one  long  vacation  ever  deceived  any- 
one who  knew  the  fellow  into  thinking  him  a  prig.  He  never 

[90] 


FATE  SPREADS  AN  ISLAND  FEAST 

pretended  that  his  ideals  of  practical  conduct  were  a  bit 
higher  than  those  of  scores  of  the  men  who  had  none  of  these 
interests  of  his.  So  marked  was  this  absence  of  the  goody- 
goody  in  Tip  that  I,  though  I  recalled  his  face  and  vaguely 
connected  him  with  something  or  other  in  the  athletic  line, 
never  remembered  these  other  characteristics  of  his  until, 
at  Roger's  warm  greeting,  the  years  rolled  back  and  Tip 
Elder,  oarsman  and  philanthropist,  took  his  proper  place  in 
my  memory  again. 

We  scrambled  up  the  rough  landing  steps,  rubbed  down 
quickly  and  got  into  the  fresh  linen  Roger  had  brought  us, 
talking  curt  commonplaces,  not  even  embarrassed,  in  the 
glow  and  vigour  of  that  strengthening  dip,  and  I  noticed  that 
the  underwear,  though  of  the  best  linen,  was  somehow  a 
little  unfamiliar  in  its  fashion,  indescribably  antiquated  in 
cut. 

"We'll  talk  at  breakfast,"  said  Roger,  as  we  hurried  toward 
the  cottage.  "I  know  you're  hungry." 

He  pushed  open  the  door,  and  we  entered,  gazing  curiously 
around  us.  We  stood  in  a  large,  square  room,  evidently  a 
dining-  and  living-room,  washed  with  a  greyish  plaster,  at 
once  warm  and  cool.  There  was  a  deep,  wide  hearth  of 
faded  red  brick  on  one  side,  and  an  old  oak  dresser  covered 
with  a  very  good  service  of  gold-rimmed  white  china  and 
several  pieces  of  handsome  Sheffield  plate.  The  few  chairs 
and  settees  and  the  one  large  table  in  the  centre  were  all  of 
that  solid  yet  graceful  Georgian  style  that  our  ancestors 
brought  with  them;  the  bare  clean  floor  and  the  home-made 
rugs,  taken  with  this  furniture,  gave  an  effect  more  usual  now 
in  a  summer  cottage  than  it  was  then.  On  the  walls  were 
eight  or  ten  water-colour  sketches  framed  in  rustic  wood;  a 
worn  wicker  cliaise-langue  with  patchwork  cushions,  struck 
a  curiously  exotic  note;  two  spinning-wheels,  a  large  and  a 
small,  flanked  the  fire  and  bore  every  evidence  of  use,  not 
astheticism;  a  silver  bowl  of  unmistakable  Queen  Anne 
date,  beautifully  chased,  filled  with  fiery  nasturtiums,  stood 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


in  strange  neighbourliness  to  a  cheap  American  alarum  clock; 
a  lovely,  tarnished  oval  mirror  reflected  a  hideous  floral 
calendar,  the  advertisement  of  some  seedsman.  The  room 
turned  in  a  small  ell,  and  this,  which  was  evidently  the 
kitchen  corner  of  it,  could  be  completely  hidden  from  the 
rest  by  a  quaint  screen,  very  broad  and  high,  of  home  manu- 
facture, the  body  of  which  was  composed  of  several  calf- 
skins beautifully  marked  and  adroitly  fitted  together. 
This  last  gave  a  touch  of  quaint  antiquity,  a  hint  of  the  bold 
and  primitive  that  was  deliciously  satisfying.  I  thought  it 
then  and  still  think  it  a  room  in  ten  thousand.  It  had  no 
other  door  nor  any  window  opening  on  the  beach,  and  this 
produced  a  softened  dimness,  a  richness,  so  to  speak,  of 
lighting  and  gloom,  a  sinking  into  shadow  of  the  hearth  and 
spinning-wheels,  a  lightness  of  the  dresser  and  the  polished 
settle  near  it  that  struck  the  eye  with  the  same  contented 
shock  one  gets  from  a  mellow  Dutch  interior — the  same 
impression  of  previous  acquaintance,  of  a  once  familiar,  only 
half  forgotten  home. 

I  have  since  tried  to  analyse  the  charm  of  that  room,  its 
inevitable  hold  upon  every  one  privileged  to  enter  it  (and  I 
suppose  few  rooms  in  America  have  held  a  greater  number 
of  really  select  souls),  and  I  have  decided  that  its  spell  con- 
sisted in  its  deeply  impersonal  character;  its  utter  lack  of  the 
characteristics,  the  idiosyncrasies,  the  imbecilities,  even  the 
fascinations  of  other,  no  matter  how  attractive  dwelling 
places.  It  had  the  restful  aloofness  of  a  studio,  with  none  of 
its  professional  limitations;  the  domesticity  of  a  home,  with 
none  of  its  fatiguing  clutter;  the  freedom  of  an  inn,  with  none 
of  its  stale  sense  of  over-use.  And  above  and  through  all 
this  ran  the  note  of  almost  ascetic  cleanliness,  a  purity 
fairly  conventual.  Like  most  men,  I  have  a  concealed  pas- 
sion for  perfect  cleanliness — concealed,  because  to  the  sex 
so  ironically  intrusted  with  the  duty  of  domestic  lustration 
cleanliness  appears  to  mean  frightful  and  devastating  up- 
heavals resulting  in  a  nauseating  odour  of  soap  and  furni- 
[92] 


FATE  SPREADS  AN  ISLAND   FEAST 

ture  polish.  When  you  shall  have  learned,  dear  ladies,  to 
keep  your  domains  clean  without  so  furiously  getting  them 
clean,  you  will  have  earned,  in  our  eyes,  your  somewhat 
dubious  title  of  housekeepers.  Meanwhile,  continue,  in 
heaven's  name,  to  think  us  the  contentedly  dirty  sex! 

From  the  kitchen  ell  delicious  odours  proceeded,  and  as  we 
sat  down  around  the  shining  old  table  with  its  fine,  much- 
darned  linen,  and  its  delicate  china  eked  out  where  neces- 
sary by  cheap,  coarse,  village  crockery,  a  heavy-faced  fel- 
low with  dull  eyes  under  a  shock  of  hair  served  us  with  what, 
upon  mature  consideration,  I  believe  to  have  been  the  finest 
breakfast  I  have  ever  eaten.  A  great  fresh  fish,  broiled  with 
bacon,  plenty  of  those  delicious  corn-meal  muffins  (I  believe 
they  are  locally  and  truly  known  as  "gems")  mealy  potatoes 
fried  in  bacon  fat,  and  a  sort  of  tart  jam  or  marmalade  made 
of  wild  plums  to  top  off  with,  the  whole  washed  down  with 
strong  coffee  and  rich  cream,  melted  before  our  keen-edged 
appetites  like  dew  before  the  hungry  sun,  and  we  hardly 
spoke  as  we  filled  ourselves. 

Much  combined  to  give  a  flavour  to  the  meal:  the  long, 
worried  night,  the  short,  cool  plunge,  the  excitement  of  our 
adventure,  the  mystery  of  this  empty  house  (for  neither 
Margarita  nor  any  other  hostess  was  present)  and  in  my  own 
case  the  wild,  heady  consciousness  of  that  absurd,  incredible 
thing  that  had  just  happened  to  me:  the  confused  yet  certain 
sense  that  it  could  never  be  quite  the  same  with  me  as 
it  had  been  before  I  met  that  extraordinary  girl  in  the  faded 
red  jersey.  It  was  too  soon  to  think  about  it,  I  was  still 
stupid  from  the  shock  of  it,  but  my  blood  ran  very  sweetly 
through  my  veins,  the  delicious,  strong  air  of  the  beach  was 
in  my  nostrils  and  the  food  was  fit  for  the  hunger  of  the  gods. 


[93] 


CHAPTER  XI 

OUR  PARSON  PROVES  CAPABLE 

Ax  last  even  we  could  eat  no  more,  and  Roger  pulled  out 
an  old  pipe  that  I  had  never  seen  before,  pushed  a  jar  of  fra- 
grant tobacco  toward  us,  brought  us  pipes  from  the  chimney- 
piece  and  crossed  his  legs  definitely. 

"I  suppose,  Tip,"  he  said,  "you're  wondering  why  you're 
here,  eh?" 

"A  little,"  said  Tip  comfortably,  " but  not  too  much.  To 
tell  you  the  truth,  fellows,  I  haven't  had  such  a  thoroughly 
good  time  for — oh,  for  ten  years,  I  should  say!  Somehow 
I  feel  as  if  everything  but  just  this  actual  moment — this 
breakfast,  this  pipe,  this  queer  old  room — was  a  sort  of  dream 
and  these  were  the  only  things  that  mattered." 

"I  know,"  Roger  answered  quietly,  "that's  the  way  one 
feels  here.  The  place  is  bewitched,  I  think.  Well,  Tip,  I 
want  to  get  married,  and  I'd  rather  you'd  be  the  one  to  do 
the  business  than  any  man  I  know." 

"I  rather  suspected  it,"  Tip  said,  "and  I'll  be  mighty 
glad  to  do  it  for  you,  Roger.  Who  is  she?" 

There  was  quite  a  pause  here,  and  Roger  puffed  slowly  and 
thoughtfully  at  the  old  pipe  and  looked  out  of  the  open  door 
toward  the  little  bay.  By  and  by  he  spoke,  and  the  concise 
clearness  of  what  he  said  was  most  characteristic  of  him. 

"Of  course  I  needn't  go  into  all  this  at  all,"  he  began, 
"unless  I  wanted  to.  In  fact,  my  original  idea  was  to  have 
a  perfect  stranger  (as  I  somehow  thought  Jerry  would  bring) 
marry  us  without  his  being  any  the  wiser.  But  the  minute 
I  saw  you,  Tip,  I  felt  that  I'd  like  you  to  know.  But  I'd 
rather  you  kept  it  to  yourself." 

[94] 


OUR    PARSON    PROVES   CAPABLE 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  Tip  nodded  gravely. 

"  Of  course  you  have  my  word  for  that,"  he  said. 

"The  woman  I'm  going  to  marry,"  Roger  went  on,  in  his 
quiet,  practical  voice,  "was  born  and  brought  up  on  this 
little  peninsula.  She  has  never  left  it  but  once  in  her  life. 
Her  mother  died  when  she  was  a  baby,  her  father  a  few 
weeks  ago,  I  should  say.  She  does  not  know  her  father's 
name,  nor,  consequently,  her  own.  It  is  evident  from  this 
house,  the  furnishings  and  the  books,  that  he  was  a  gentle- 
man and  an  educated  one.  For  as  long  as  she  can  remember 
they  were  served  and  looked  after  in  ever/  way  by  a  woman 
called  Hester  Prynne  and  this  half-witted  fellow  called  Cali- 
ban. Of  course  I  have  no  idea  what  their  real  names  were. 
The  woman  died  very  recently  and  the  girl  was  left  alone. 
There  was  a  big  chest  fairly  well  filled  with  money  under  her 
father's  bed,  but  not  a  line  or  word  in  it  to  give  any  clue. 
Either  her  father  or  mother  must  have  been  Italian,  I  should 
think,  both  from  her  name  and  her  general  type,  but  she 
knows  no  Italian  whatever — only  a  simple  childish  sort  of 
French.  She  is  the  only  woman  I  should  ever  marry  if  I 
lived  a  hundred  years,  and  I  want  you  to  do  it  to-day.  Will 
you?" 

I  drew  the  long  breath  I  had  been  holding  during  this 
speech  and  felt  a  great  relief.  It  was  all  so  simple,  after  all! 
I  hoped  Tip  wouldn't  spoil  it,  but  I  was  afraid  he  would. 
He  wasn't  at  all  what  one  would  call  a  man  of  the  world: 
he  had  always  felt  a  terrible  responsibility  for  other  people's 
actions,  and  this  particular  action  was,  to  put  it  mildly,  cer- 
tainly rather  unusual.  But  I  had  under-estimated  both 
Tip's  keenness  and  the  effect  of  Roger's  big,  quiet  person- 
ality. For  Tip  stared  hard  at  his  pipe  a  moment,  then  at 
Roger,  then  back  at  the  pipe,  and  said: 

"  Surely  I  will,  Roger.  And  be  glad  to."  And  there's  Tip 
Elder  for  you! 

We  smoked  awhile  longer  in  silence.  Finally  Tip  began 
again  in  a  casual  sort  of  way,  as  if,  the  main  question  having 

[95] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


been  settled,  this  were  a  mere  detail,  but  one  that  he  might 
as  well  mention. 

"  How  about  the  name,  Roger  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Won't  that  be 
a  little  awkward?  At  home,  you  know.  I  suppose  you 
couldn't  wait  till  you  found  it  out?" 

Roger  threw  his  jaw  forward  a  bit  and  pursed  his  mouth, 
a  trick  he  had  when  he  was  bothered  but  couldn't  see  any  way 
out  of  it. 

' '  No,  I  couldn't, ' '  he  said  thoughtfully.  ' '  In  the  first  place, 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  don't  much  believe  there's  any  chance 
of  finding  it  out  except  by  pure  accident.  There's  not  a  scrap 
of  evidence  about  the  place,  and  it  is  undoubtedly  intentional. 
I've  opened  every  book  in  her  father's  room  and  there  are  no 
collections  of  old  litter  in  any  closet — there's  no  attic — and 
not  a  letter  or  bill  in  the  house.  A  doctor  came  here  once  or 
twice,  but  he  never  mentioned  her  father's  name  in  her 
hearing,  and  this  Hester  told  her  he  came  from  New  York. 
Caliban  did  the  marketing  and  paid  cash  for  everything. 
The  telegraph  operator,  who  is  the  only  one  I've  spoken  with 
in  the  town,  represents  the  attitude  of  everybody  there, 
probably,  and  he  thinks,  evidently,  that  an  eccentric  recluse 
lives  here,  and  that  his  housekeeper  is  pretty  close-mouthed 
and  'unsociable,'  as  he  put  it.  It's  rather  strange  that  they 
aren't  more  curious,  but  she  must  have  known  how  to  deal 
with  them,  for  whatever  interest  anybody  may  have  felt  died 
out  long  ago.  They  know  the  man  had  a  daughter  and  that 
she's  grown  now,  but  this  fellow  told  me  that  he'd  heard  she 
went  barefoot  most  of  the  time,  and  there  was  a  half  rumour 
that  she  was  feeble-minded,  and  that  was  why  they  kept  so 
close.  He  thinks  I'm  boarding  here,  apparently.  I  suppose 
that  any  curious  boys  or  tramps  that  might  have  been 
tempted  over  here  were  frightened  off  by  the  dogs — there 
used  to  be  a  pair  of  them." 

He  paused  to  fill  his  pipe  again  and  Tip  nodded  compre- 
hendingly. 

"  I  see,"  he  said,  "  it's  an  extraordinary  situation,  isn't  it  ?  " 
[96] 


OUR    PARSON    PROVES    CAPABLE 

Another  pause,  and  he  added  with  his  eyes  carefully  off 
Roger's  face: 

"This  housekeeper,  now — you  don't  think  it's  possible 


"No,  I  don't,"  Roger  interrupted  shortly.  "Both  she  and 
the  father  have  told  Margarita  that  she  resembled  her 
mother,  and  that  her  mother  was  very  good  and  very  beau- 
tiful, but  that  she  was  not  named  after  her.  She  died  when 
the  child  was  born,  and  Hester  was  with  them  then.  Be- 
sides, her  father  used  to  correct  her  for  using  expressions  of 
Hester's  and  forbade  her  to  hold  her  knife  and  fork  as  Hes- 
ter did,  and  things  of  that  sort.  She  never  ate  with  them, 
either.  Margarita  says  that  Hester  loved  her  father  but  was 
always  afraid  of  him." 

Caliban  had  the  table  cleared  now,  and  Tip  and  I  stared 
into  our  reflections  in  the  beautiful,  shining  mahogany  where 
our  plates  had  been.  I  suppose  the  same  thing  was  in  both 
our  minds.  What  a  strange  marriage  for  a  Bradley!  What 
an  incongruous  effect,  in  steady  old  Roger's  life!  When  one 
considered  all  the  Jacksons  and  Searses  and  Cabots  he 
might  have  married — there  was  one  particular  red-cheeked, 
big-waisted  Cabot  girl  that  old  Madam  Bradley  had  long 
and  openly  favoured — one  could  but  gasp  at  the  present 
situation.  A  surnameless  Miranda,  whose  only  possessions 
were  a  chest  of  money,  a  few  pieces  of  old  mahogany  and  a 
brindled  hound! 

"I  haven't  seen  the  young  lady  yet,  you  know,  Roger," 
Tip  reminded  him  gently  at  last,  and  Roger,  coming  out  of 
his  abstraction  with  a  quick  smile,  stepped  to  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  and  called,  "Margarita!  Margarita!  Viens,cJierie/" 

She  came,  hesitating  from  stair  to  stair  as  a  child  does, 
and  I  caught  my  breath  when  I  saw  her — as  I  have  always 
done  whenever  she  appeared  in  a  new  and  different  dress. 
For  she  had  taken  off  the  faded  jersey  and  put  on  a  longer, 
more  womanly  frock  of  some  sort  of  clear  blue  print.  It 
was  faded,  too,  and  much  washed,  evidently,  but  its  dull, 

[97] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


soft  tone  and  simple,  scant  lines  only  threw  out  the  more 
strongly  her  rich  colouring  and  strong,  supple  figure.  The 
body  of  it  crossed  on  itself  simply  in  front,  like  an  old-time 
kerchief,  leaving  her  throat  bare  to  the  little  hollow  at  the 
base  of  it;  around  her  waist  was  a  belt  of  square  silver  plates 
heavily  chased,  linked  together  with  delicate  silver  links. 
Her  long  braids  were  bound  around  her  beautiful  round 
head,  and  this  fashion  of  hair-dressing,  with  its  classic 
parting,  brought  out  the  purity  of  her  features  and  the  coin- 
like  regularity  of  them.  I  saw  at  once  that  she  was  older  than 
I  had  thought  her  on  the  beach:  I  had  not  given  her  twenty 
then. 

Roger  took  her  hand  and  led  her  into  the  room. 

"This  is  Margarita,"  he  said  simply,  but  his  face  told  all 
he  did  not  say,  and  I  thanked  heaven  that  neither  Elder  nor 
I  had  been  foolish  enough  to  attempt  what  we  should 
probably  have  called  reasoning  with  him. 

"Is  this  the  man  that  will  marry  us?"  she  inquired 
gravely,  taking  his  offered  hand  with  a  lovely,  free  gesture. 

"Roger  is  going  to  give  me  the  pleasure  of  making  him 
so  happy,  yes,"  said  Tip,  very  cordially,  I  thought,  and  with 
more  grace  than  I  had  believed  him  capable  of.  But  she 
did  not  even  smile  at  him,  and  it  was  rather  startling,  be- 
cause she  had  smiled  at  me,  and  I  hadn't  known  her  long 
enough  to  understand  that  she  had  absolutely  none  of  the 
perfunctory  motions  of  lips  and  eyes  that  we  learn  so  soon 
and  so  unconsciously  in  this  cynical  old  world.  When 
Margarita  didn't  feel  moved  to  smile,  she  didn't,  that  was 
all,  just  as  she  didn't  pretend  to  look  grave  at  the  death  of 
the  only  woman  she  had  ever  known  in  her  life.  She  had 
never  learned  the  game,  you  see. 

"  I  should  like  it  better  if  you  did  it,"  she  said  to  me,  and  an 
idiotic  joy  filled  every  crease  of  my  heart. 

"He  can't  do  it,  dear,"  Roger  said  gently,  "only  Mr. 
Elder  can,"  and  the  look  of  appeal  he  turned  on  Tip  would 
have  touched  a  harder  heart  than  that  dear  fellow's. 

[98] 


OUR    PARSON    PROVES   CAPABLE 

"You  see,  old  man,"  he  murmured  apologetically,  "she 
says  just  exactly  what  she  thinks,  with  no  frills — she  doesn't 
understand  yet.  ..." 

And  good  old  Tip  smiled  back  at  him  and  said  he  under- 
stood, if  Margarita  didn't,  and  perhaps  she  would  be  willing 
to  make  his  acquaintance  a  little  and  walk  out  on  the  beach 
with  him? 

"I  want  to  be  your  friend,  too,  Miss  Margarita,  as  well  as 
Roger's,"  he  ended. 

"  I  will  walk  with  you  if  Jerry  comes  too,"  she  said  placidly, 
and  so  we  all  laughed — I  somewhat  unsteadily — and  Tip 
and  I  took  her  for  a  walk. 

And  right  here  I  must  stop  and  mention  a  very  interesting 
thing.  Though  she  saw  him  often  after  that,  for  the  intimacy 
renewed  there  after  so  many  years  never  has  waned  since, 
and  he  has  woven  himself  strangely  and  wholesomely  into  all 
our  lives,  Margarita  never  cared  for  Tip.  For  a  long  time  I 
did  not  see  why,  and  always  attributed  his  extraordinary  in- 
vulnerability to  her  charm  to  her  lack  of  interest  in  him,  but 
suddenly  one  day  it  came  to  me  (in  my  bath,  I  remember; 
I  squeezed  a  lot  of  soap  into  my  eye  till  I  thought  I  should 
go  blind)  and  I  realised  all  at  once  what  a  fool  I  had  been. 
She  did  not  care  for  him  just  because  he  did  not  surrender 
to  her.  He  was  the  only  man  but  one  that  ever  had  anything 
to  do  with  her,  so  far  as  I  know,  who  was  not,  in  one  degree 
or  another,  in  love  with  her.  He  admitted  her  beauty  and 
charm,  he  admired  her  talent,  he  respected  her  frankness 
— but  he  never  was  the  least  little  bit  in  love  with  her,  and 

except  for  J — n  S 1,  who  failed  to  make  a  great  picture 

of  her,  for  the  same  reason,  I  believe,  he  is  the  only  man  I 
know  who  ever  had  the  opportunity,  of  whom  that  can  be 
said. 

And  from  the  moment  their  eyes  met,  Margarita  saw  this 
(or  felt  it,  rather,  for  she  had  not  had  sufficient  practice  in 
reading  people  at  that  time  to  be  able  to  see  it)  and — he  simply 
did  not  exist  for  her. 

[99] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


For  I  must  admit  it :  it  was  her  own  particular  fault,  that. 
And  I  must  hasten  to  add  that  I  loved  her  the  more  for  it. 
She  was  heartless  in  a  situation  of  that  sort.  It  would  be 
folly  to  deny  it.  It  was  as  much  a  part  of  her  enchanting 
personality,  and  as  little  a  defect  in  my  indulgent  eyes,  as 
the  three  tiny  moles  under  her  chin  (true  grains  de  beaute) 
or  her  utter  refusal  to  affect  an  interest  in  people's  affairs  or  to 
eat  the  insides  of  her  rolls  and  bread-slices.  All  faults, 
doubtless — but  who  would  have  or  love  a  faultless  woman  ? 
Not  I,  at  any  rate,  for  I  loved  her  and  love  her  and  shall 
love  her  till  my  heart  is  a  handful  of  dust,  and  she  was  far 
from  faultless,  my  Margarita. 

And  yet,  characteristically  enough,  it  was  to  Tip  that  she 
turned  in  what  was  without  any  doubt  the  great  decision  of 
her  life,  and  Tip  that  influenced  her  to  it.  She  knew  whom 
to  go  to  well  enough,  and  she  knew  that  he  was  the  one  per- 
son qualified  to  give  her  absolutely  unprejudiced  counsel. 
Oh,  yes!  she  knew.  Just  as  the  beasts  make  for  the  root  or 
herb  or  flower  that  will  cure  them,  she  went  to  him,  with  an 
instinct  as  true  as  theirs.  And  I,  God  forgive  me,  was  a  tiny 
bit  jealous  of  him  for  that!  Men  are  made  of  curious  clay, 
my  masters,  and  it's  a  mad  world  indeed. 

After  we  came  back  from  our  walk,  during  which  she  and 
I  talked,  and  Tip  listened  quietly,  he  moved  toward  Roger 
and  I  left  Margarita  fondling  the  dog  and  joined  him. 

"She  is  a  lovely  creature,  Roger,"  he  said  thoughtfully. 
"  I  don't  want  for  a  moment  to  meddle,  but  on  the  chance 
that  you  haven't  thought  of  it,  may  I  suggest  one  thing  ?  " 

"Fire  ahead,"  said  Roger.  He  had  changed  his  clothes, 
and  appeared  in  his  accustomed  business  suit;  its  neat 
creases  and  quiet  colour  made  him  again  the  responsible, 
unromantic  lawyer  I  had  known,  and  took  away  the  last 
vestige  of  dramatic  oddity  from  the  situation.  It  all  seemed 
natural  and  sober  enough. 

"Had  you  thought  of  taking  her  to  your  mother  and 
marrying  her  there,  Roger?"  Tip  went  on  quietly.  "Sup- 
[100] 


OUR   PARSON    PROVES   CAPABLE 

posing  she  were  to  adopt  her,  even — you  could  arrange  all 
that  easily — then  there  would  be  no  awkwardness.  As  it  is, 
it  might  be  made  a  little  uncomfortable  ...  it  isn't  as  if 
you  were  a  nobody,  you  know,  old  man,  and  you  don't 
know  her  name,  you  see,  and  ..." 

I  will  own  that  this  struck  me  as  an  extremely  practical 
plan  for  a  moment,  and  I  looked  hopefully  at  Roger.  But 
he  shook  his  head. 

"  I  see  what  you  mean,  Tip,"  said  he,  "  but  it's  impos- 
sible. I  wish  it  weren't.  I  thought  of  it,  of  course.  But 
there  are  reasons  why  it  won't  do.  I  won't  attempt  to  deny 
that  this  will  be  a  blow  to  my  mother.  I  know  her  too  well 
to  consider  for  a  moment  the  possibility  of  her  helping  me  in 
this  way.  She — she  is  very  proud  and — and  she  has  her 
own  ideas.  .  .  .  My  cousin,  too —  Oh,  Lord!"  he  con- 
cluded suddenly,  "  Jerry '11  tell  you  it  wouldn't  work." 

Of  course  it  wouldn't.  In  one  flash  I  saw  that  dark, 
determined  house  on  the  Back  Bay,  Madam  Bradley's  cold, 
bloodless  face  and  Sarah's  malicious  eyes  probing,  probing 
Margarita's  crystal  unconsciousness.  It  seemed  to  me 
suddenly  that  Roger's  mother  might  not,  and  that  Sarah 
certainly  would  not,  forgive  this  business.  I  saw  his  mother 
in  a  series  of  retrospective  flashes,  as  I  had  been  seeing  her 
for  twenty-five  years:  each  time  a  little  more  impersonal,  a 
little  more  withdrawn,  a  little  less  tolerant.  I  remembered 
the  quiet,  bitter  quarrel  with  the  president  of  the  university 
to  which  he  would  naturally  have  gone,  and  its  result  of  send- 
ing him  to  Yale,  the  first  of  his  name  to  desert  Harvard, 
to  the  amazement  and  horror  of  his  kinsfolk.  I  remembered 
the  cold  resentment  that  followed  his  decision  to  go  to  work 
in  New  York,  based  very  sensibly,  I  thought,  on  the  impos- 
sibility of  submission  to  his  uncle's  great  firm — the  head  of  the 
family — and  the  inadvisability  of  working  in  Boston  under 
his  disfavour.  I  remembered  the  banishment  of  his  younger 
sister  on  her  displeasing  marriage  (the  old  lady  actually 
read  her  out  of  the  family  with  bell  and  book)  and  the  poor 

[101] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


woman's  subsequent  social  death  and  bitter  decline  of 
health  and  spirit.  I  remembered  the  sad  death  of  his  second 
sister,  and  the  stony  philosophy  of  her  impenetrable  mother. 
I  remembered  the  eldest  daughter,  a  brilliant  beauty,  whose 
career  might  have  brushed  the  skirts  of  actual  royalty, 
and  whose  mysterious  renouncement  of  every  triumph  and 
joy  possible  to  woman  (one  would  suppose)  and  sudden 
conversion  and  retirement  to  a  Roman  Catholic  order  con- 
vulsed Boston  for  a  long  nine  days  and  broke  Madam  Brad- 
ley's  heart  so  that  she  never  smiled  again — and  never,  it 
was  whispered,  forgave  the  God  who  had  allowed  such  a 
shipwreck.  That  she  loved  Roger,  I  must  believe;  that 
she  was  proud  of  him  and  looked  upon  him  with  a  sort  of 
stern,  fanatical  loyalty  as  the  head  of  her  family,  I  knew.  But 
I  could  not  see  her  adopting,  or  even  tolerating,  Margarita 
with  the  unknown  name.  No,  it  wouldn't  do.  And  I  told 
Tip  so  very  decidedly. 

"But  if  you  wanted  to  take  her  to  my  mother,  Roger," 
I  ventured,  seeing,  in  fancy,  the  dear  woman  cooing  over 
Roger's  mysterious,  romantic  beauty  (she  adored  him  and 
would,  moreover,  have  adopted  a  chambermaid  if  I  had 
begged  her  to),  "  it  could  be  arranged,  I  know.  .  .  ." 

"Thank  you,  Jerry,"  he  interrupted  shortly,  "but  it  must 

be  now.    I  can't  have  anything  happen.    Any  slip " 

I  saw  his  hands  clench,  and  I  knew  why.  Whether  Tip  knew, 
I  couldn't  tell ;  he  never  indicated  it,  then  or  ever  after,  good 
fellow.  But  he  wasn't  a  fool.  " Melez-vous  de  c'qui  vous 
regarde!"  as  we  used  to  say  at  Vevay,  and  Tip  minded  his 
business  well. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said  quickly,  "I  only  thought  I'd 
mention  it.  How  about  the  license  in  this  state  ?  " 

They  talked  a  little  in  low  tones,  and  I  looked  at  Margarita 
and  thought  of  the  odd  chances  of  life,  and  how  we  are  hur- 
ried past  this  and  that  and  stranded  on  the  other,  and  skim 
the  rapids  sometimes,  to  be  wrecked  later  in  clear  shallows, 
perhaps. 

[102] 


OUR   PARSON    PROVES   CAPABLE 

"If  you  are  ready,  then?"  said  Tip,  and  we  all  moved 
across  the  beach  and  found  ourselves  standing  on  a  great, 
smooth  rock  that  would  be  cut  off  in  a  full  high  tide,  with 
Caliban,  clean  and  quiet  and  pathetically  attentive,  behind  us, 
and  with  him  a  curiously  familiar  stranger,  very  neatly 
dressed,  with  tired  eyes.  As  we  grouped  ourselves  there 
and  Tip  pulled  a  tiny  book  from  his  pocket  I  recollected 
this  stranger's  face — it  was  the  telegraph  operator!  Roger, 
who  forgot  nothing,  had  brought  him  over  for  the  other 
witness. 

"Dearly  beloved,"  said  Tip  in  a  clear,  deep  voice,  and  I 
woke  with  a  start  and  realised  that  old  Roger  was  being 
married.  Margarita,  in  her  graceful,  faded  blue  gown, 
gazed  curiously  at  him,  one  hand  in  Roger's;  the  noon  sun 
streamed  down  on  us  from  a  cloudless,  turquoise  sky;  the 
little  waves  ran  up  the  points  of  rocks,  broke,  and  fell  away 
musically. 

To  appreciate  those  quaint  sentences  of  the  marriage 
sen-ice,  you  must  hear  them  out  under  the  heavens,  alone, 
with  no  bridesmaids,  no  voice  that  breathed  o'er  Eden,  no 
flowers  but  the  great  handful  of  flaming  nasturtiums  Roger 
had  put  in  her  hands  (no  maiden  lilies  grew  on  that  rock!) 
and  a  quiet  man  dressed  just  as  other  men  are  dressed,  with 
only  the  consciousness  of  his  calling  to  separate  him  from 
the  rest  of  us.  They  held  their  own,  those  quaint  old  phrases, 
I  assure  you !  But  it  was  then  I  learned  to  respect  them. 

Nevertheless,  Roger  Jiad  forgotten  something. 

"Where's  the  ring?"  the  telegraph  operator  motioned  to 
me  with  his  lips.  His  tired  eyes  expressed  a  mild  interest. 
I  saw  Roger's  lips  purse;  for  a  moment  his  eyes  left  Mar- 
garita's face  and  I  knew  that  he  had  just  remembered  it. 
I  looked  down  vaguely,  and  my  eyes  fell  upon  the  worn, 
thin  band  on  my  little  finger — my  mother's  mother's  wedding- 
ring.  In  one  of  those  lightning  flashes  of  memory  I  saw 
myself,  a  lad  again,  starting  for  college,  and  my  mother 
putting  it  on  my  finger. 

[103] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


"She  was  the  best  woman,  I  believe,  that  ever  lived,  Jerry 
— I  took  it  when  she  died.  I  want  you  to  wear  it,  and  per- 
haps you  will  think — oh,  my  darling!  I  know  it  is  hard  to 
be  a  good  man,  but  will  you  try  ?  " 

My  dear,  dear  mother!     I  think  I  tried — I  hope  so. 

I  slipped  it  from  my  finger — I  had  taken  it  off  sometimes, 
but  never  for  so  good  a  reason — and  pressed  it  into  Roger's 
hand.  He  accepted  it  as  unconsciously  as  if  it  had  come 
from  heaven — and  it  was  my  ring  that  married  Margarita. 


104] 


I    SEEM    TO    SEE    ...    A    BEAUTIFUL    WOMAN    IN    A    BLUE 
DRESS    SITTING   UNDER    A   FRUIT   TREE 


CHAPTER  XII 

I  LEAVE   EDEN 

CLEAR  as  I  am  on  a  thousand  little  points  that  concern  my 
first  meeting  with  Margarita,  my  mind  is  a  perfect  blank 
when  I  try  to  recall  the  events  of  the  next  half  hour.  We 
must,  of  course,  have  left  the  rock,  for  I  have  a  dim  recol- 
lection of  drinking  healths  in  that  dear  old  room  and  signing 
our  names  to  something.  But  on  what  order  we  left  it,  of 
what  we  spoke,  if  we  spoke  at  all,  and  how  we  at  last  found 
ourselves  alone,  I  do  not  know.  And  yet  it  seems  to  me  that 
some  one — was  it  I  ? — discussed  remedies  for  insomnia  with 
some  one  else,  and  that  some  third  person  assured  us  that 
nothing  but  a  complete  change  of  scene  could  be  of  any 
lasting  benefit.  And  my  reason  assures  me  that  Tip  and  I 
and  the  telegraph  operator  must  have  been  these  three,  for 
I  seem  to  see,  as  if  through  a  dim  haze,  a  beautiful  woman 
in  a  blue  dress  sitting  under  a  fruit  tree,  with  a  dog's  head  in 
her  lap,  a  flaming  handful  of  nasturtiums  in  her  belt,  and  a 
man  lying  at  her  feet,  with  his  hand  in  hers  and  his  eyes 
fixed  on  her  face.  This  could  hardly  have  been  Roger,  one 
would  think,  for  Roger  was  not  a  demonstrative  man, 
and  certainly  not  likely  to  have  been  so  under  these  circum- 
stances .  .  .  and  yet,  if  not  Roger,  who  could  it  have  been  ? 

After  that  I  remember  well  enough.  Caliban  was  to  row 
the  telegrapher  back,  as  he  had  brought  him  over,  and  as 
the  haggard  little  fellow  advanced  to  say  his  good-byes, 
Margarita  and  Roger  appeared  from  somewhere  to  receive 
them.  He  shook  her  hand  cordially  and  tried  honestly  not 
to  stare  too  admiringly  at  her. 

[105] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


"This  has  been  a  great  pleasure,  Mrs.  Bradley,  a  real 
pleasure  to  me,"  he  said,  "aside  from  the  romance  and — and 
so  forth,  you  understand.  It  isn't  often  I  can  get  off  like 
this  in  the  daytime,  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  the  air  and 
the  water  and  all  made  me  sleep  a  little  to-night!  I  little 
thought  when  Mr.  Bradley  asked  for  an  hour  of  my  time  to- 
day that  I  should  be  going  to  the  wedding  of  the  Miss  Prynne 
I  had  heard  so  much  about." 

Tip  and  I  glanced  irrepressibly  at  each  other,  wondering 
if  this  suggestion  would  commend  itself  to  Roger.  But  he, 
I  think,  had  paid  no  attention  to  the  words,  and  his  smile  was 
merely  kindly  and  polite.  So  the  sleepless  one  rowed  away, 
the  richer  by  a  box  of  good  cigars,  and  Tip  and  I  were  left 
to  plan  our  own  departure. 

For  mine,  at  any  rate,  Roger  seemed  in  no  hurry.  When 
Tip  assured  him  that  he  must,  without  fail,  catch  the  next 
possible  train,  he  got  a  schedule  and  arranged  for  a  short 
drive  across  country  to  a  tiny  station  that  profited  by  the 
summer  residence  of  a  railroad  magnate,  and  could  con- 
nect him  with  an  otherwise  impossible  express;  but  me 
he  urged  to  stop  on  in  terms  so  unmistakably  sincere  that  I 
saw  he  really  wanted  a  few  more  hours  of  my  company,  at 
least;  and  as  I  found  that  a  milk-train  stopped  at  the  village 
at  ten  that  night,  and  had  learned  from  experience  that 
much  might  be  accomplished  with  a  banknote  and  a  cigar 
and  an  obliging  brakeman,  I  was  glad  enough  to  stay  on,  and 
with  a  curious  feeling  of  return  to  the  actual  world  I  pushed 
out  across  the  beach  with  Roger  and  Margarita,  who 
dropped  on  the  sand  with  the  great  dog  at  their  feet.  I 
joined  them  quietly  and  we  sat,  hardly  speaking,  for  at  least 
three  long,  golden  hours.  They  drew  me,  a  naturally  rather 
talkative  person,  into  one  of  their  deep  peaceful  silences,  and 
just  because  there  was  so  much  to  say,  we  wisely  left  it  un- 
said, and  rested  like  the  animals  (or  the  angels,  maybe?) 
in  a  rich  content. 

It  was  then  that  I  understood  the  vital  principle  of  the 
[106] 


I    LEAVE   EDEN 


Friends'  Meeting  House,  and  realised  how  much  of  the  heat 
and  vulgarity  of  life  the  best  Quaker  tradition  buries  under 
the  cool,  deep  waves  of  its  invaluable  Silence.  To  such  ar- 
tists in  life  the  lack  of  speech  is  not  repression — far  from  it. 
Myself,  I  have  never  lived  more  generously  than  in  that 
wonderful  afternoon,  and  the  few  hours  that  came  afterward 
were  mere  by-play. 

Later  Caliban  brought  us  a  picnic  supper  on  the  beach  and 
then  Roger  wrote  some  letters,  gave  me  many  instructions 
for  his  partner,  listed  the  matters  to  be  put  off  for  a  week 
and  those  to  be  sent  to  him  for  personal  attention  (precious 
few,  these!)  and  agreed  to  my  suggestion  that  when  he  re- 
turned to  town  my  mother  should  meet  them  and  take 
Margarita  in  charge  for  the  purchases  that  must  be 
made  before  the  year  of  travel  he  intended  to  take  with  his 
wife — lucky  fellow,  whose  lap  Fate  had  filled  with  all 
her  gifts! 

He  was  to  let  me  know  when  he  would  come  and  I  was 
to  forward  his  mother's  answer  to  the  letter  he  had  written 
her;  most  of  their  intercourse  of  late  had  been  of  this  sort, 
for  his  uncle's  recent  death  had  opened  again  the  vexed 
question  of  Boston  residence  and  his  inability  to  comply 
with  her  unreasonable  demands  had  strained  anew  relations 
never  very  close,  humanly  considered.  The  unfortunate 
early  years  of  family  restraint,  the  lack  of  all  those  weak  and 
tender  intimacies,  not  uncommon  in  New  England  families, 
had  borne  their  legitimate  fruit,  and  my  mother's  gentle 
passionate  heart  froze  at  the  mere  thought  of  Madam 
Bradley's  icy  reserve,  while  to  me,  I  own,  she  was  never  more 
than  an  unpleasant  abstraction. 

And  then  the  time  came  and  Caliban  pulled  the  boat 
across  and  I  pressed  Margarita's  hand  and  stood  up  to  go. 
Roger  took  both  my  hands  and  wrung  them. 

"  I  couldn't  speak  about  the  ring,  Jerry,"  he  said,  quickly 
and  very  low,  "  it's  no  use  trying.  But  you  understand  ?  " 

"That's  all  right,  Roger,"  I  muttered  hastily,  "it's  the 

[107] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


best  use  I'm  likely  to  make  of  it.     Good-bye,  old  fellow. 
God  bless  you,  Roger,"  and  I  stumbled  into  the  boat. 

Caliban  pulled  hard  at  the  oars  and  we  slid  away.  I  looked 
at  them  once.  For  a  full  minute — dear  fellow — he  stared 
wistfully  after  me  (oh,  Roger,  you'll  never  forget,  never,  I 
know!  Twenty-five  years  are  over  and  gone  to-night,  and 
the  close,  unrivalled  companionship  of  them,  and  I  am  alone 
from  now  on — but  you'll  not  forget!)  and  then  they  turned 
to  each  other  and  I  was  no  more  than  a  speck  on  the  even- 
ing water.  "Put  your  back  into  it,  man;  get  along,  can't 
you?"  I  growled  to  Caliban.  We  shot  ahead  and  left 
them  to  each  other,  alone  under  the  heavy,  yellow  moon 
and  the  close,  secret  stars. 


108] 


PART  FOUR 

IN  WHICH  THE    STREAM    WINDS    THROUGH    A 
SULLEN  MARSH  AND  BECOMES  A  BROOK 


Alas  for  this  unlucky  womb! 

Alas  the  breasts  that  suckled  thee! 
I  would  ha'  laid  thee  in  thy  tomb 

Or  e'er  that  witch  had  wived  with  thee  I 


Alas  my  son  that  grew  so  strong! 

Alas  those  hands  I  stretched  to  th'  bow! 
Or  e'er  thou  heardst  that  wanton's  song, 
I'd  shot  thee  long  ago  and  long, 

Through  the  black  heart  that's  shamed  me  so! 

Sir  Hugh  and  the  Mermaiden. 


109] 


CHAPTER  XIII 
STRAWS  THAT  SHOWED  THE  WIND 

[To  ROGER  FROM  ms  COUSIN  SARAH] 

BOSTON,  Sept.  7th,  188 — 
MY  DEAR  ROGER: 

Your  mother,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  is  not  physically  able 
to  answer  your  surprising  and  most  disturbing  letter,  and 
has  laid  upon  me  the  unpleasant  task  of  doing  so.  It  is, 
as  you  somewhat  brusquely  say,  unnecessary  to  discuss  at 
any  length  what  you  have  done,  since  it  is  irrevocable.  We 
can  but  feel,  however,  that  a  thing  so  hastily  entered  upon 
can  be  productive  of  no  good  (if,  indeed,  the  matter  has 
been  as  sudden  as  you-  lead  us  to  suppose). 

To  a  woman  of  your  mother's  deep  family  pride  this 
alliance  with  a  nameless  girl  from  the  streets,  practically, 
if  I  am  to  read  your  letter  aright,  can  be  nothing  short  of 
humiliating.  She  instructs  me  to  tell  you  that  she  can 
take  no  cognisance  of  any  such  connection  with  any  justice 
to  the  family  interests,  and  that  although  you  will  always  be 
welcome  here,  she  cannot  undertake  to  extend  the  welcome 
further  with  any  sincerity  of  heart. 

I  sent,  following  your  suggestions,  for  Winfred  Jerrolds, 
but  I  cannot  say  that  his  evidently  unwilling  admissions 
made  the  affair  any  the  more  palatable — how  could  they? 
Some  of  the  inferences  I  was  forced  to  draw  I  cannot  bring 
myself  to  discuss,  even  with  your  mother.  Winfred's  French 
bringing  up  and  the  influence  of  a  weakly  affectionate 
mother  have  singularly  warped  his  moral  perception.  It  is 
impossible  for  us  not  to  feel  that  had  you  followed  Aunt 
Miriam's  advice  and  established  yourself  in  Boston,  these 
dreadful  results  would  have  been  avoided.  I  try  to  believe 

[in] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


that  with  the  altered  standards  of  the  city  you  have  chosen 
your  very  fibre  has  so  weakened  that  you  cannot  grasp  the 
extent  of  the  mistake  you  have  made. 

Wmfred  Jerrolds  may,  as  you  say,  have  been  your  best 
friend,  in  one  sense,  but  I  fear  that  sense  is  a  very  narrow 
one.  He  has  certainly  succeeded  beyond  anything  he  could 
have  hoped  in  his  connection  with  our  family.  I  always 
thought  his  attentions  to  Uncle  Winthrop  unnatural  in  so 
young  a  boy,  but  he  was  always  politic.  I  am  informed 
by  Uncle  Searsy's  partner  that  nothing  can  be  done  about 
it;  you  will  be  pleased,  probably. 

You  will  realise,  I  hope,  that  living  as  I  do  with  Aunt 
Miriam,  I  cannot  with  propriety  take  any  course  counter 
to  hers  in  the  matter  of  your  marriage.  It  may  be  that  she 
will  be  more  reconciled  with  time — I  hope  so,  for  it  must  be  a 
terrible  thought  for  you  that  she  might  die  with  such  feelings 
as  she  now  has  for  her  only  son! 

Your  affectionate  cousin, 

SARAH  THAYER  BRADLEY. 

[FROM  MY  MOTHER] 

STRATFORD,  CONN., 

Sept.  7th,  188— 
MY  DARLING  BOY: 

This  is  a  hasty  note  to  tell  you  that  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  come 
to  you  and  help  dear  Roger's  bride  (how  interesting  and  beau- 
tiful she  must  be !)  for  I  must  stay  and  nurse  poor  old  Jeanne, 
who  has  had  a  bad  fall  putting  up  the  new  curtains  and  nearly 
fractured  her  hip.  She  is  in  a  great  deal  of  pain  and  cannot 
bear  anyone  but  me  about  her.  I  should  enjoy  helping 
Roger's  wife  with  her  trousseau — how  did  he  happen  to  go 
to  the  island  she  lives  on?  Is  she  one  of  the  Devonshire 
Prynnes?  Your  father  knew  a  Colonel  Prynne — cavalry, 
I  think.  How  you  will  miss  Roger — for  it  will  be  different, 
now,  Winfred — it  must  be,  you  know.  Oh,  my  dear  boy, 
if  only  I  could  help  your  wife !  If  only  I  could  see  you  with 
children  of  your  own!  Don't  wait  too  long.  Your  father 
and  I  had  but  four  years  together,  but  I  would  live  my 

[112] 


STRAWS  THAT  SHOWED  THE  WIND 

whole  life  over  again  with  no  change,  for  those  four.     I  must 
go  to  Jeanne,  now. 

Your  loving  MOTHER. 

[FROM  ROGER'S  SISTER] 

NEWTON,  MASS., 

Sept.  xoth,  188— 
DEAR  JERRY: 

I  hope  you  and  Roger  will  not  think  me  unkind,  but 
Walter  will  not  hear  of  my  looking  up  Roger's  wife,  as  you 
ask  me.  You  see  Mother  has  just  begun  to  to  be  nice  to 
him,  and  we  can't  afford  to  lose  her  good-will,  Winfred — 
we  simply  can't.  I  think  Roger  has  a  perfect  right  to  marry 
whom  he  chooses  and  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  the  horrid 
things  Sarah  says.  They  are  not  true,  are  they?  But  of 
course  they're  not.  But  why  did  Roger  do  it  so  suddenly? 
Why  not  let  us  meet  her  first?  What  will  people  think? 
She  will  hate  me,  I  suppose,  but  Roger  knows  what  we  have 
suffered  from  Mother  and  I  hope  he  will  understand. 
Walter's  eyes  have  been  very  bad,  lately,  and  Mother  is 
going  to  get  Cousin  Wolcott  Sears  to  send  him  on  some  con- 
fidential business  to  Germany,  the  voyage  will  do  him  so 
much  good!  Do  explain  to  Roger — he  will  understand. 
And  ask  him  to  write  to  me,  if  he  will. 

Yours  always, 
ALICE  BRADLEY-CARTER. 

[FROM  ROGER'S  UNCLE] 

3 COMMONWEALTH  AVE., 

BOSTON,  MASS.,  Sept.  i2th,  188 — 
MY  DEAR  ROGER: 

Your  mother  has  communicated  to  me  the  facts  of  your 
marriage,  and  while  I  cannot  pretend  that  I  feel  the  haste 
and  apparent  mystery  surrounding  it  are  entirely  satisfac- 
tory to  your  aunt  and  myself,  I  have  hastened  to  point  out 
to  your  mother  that  a  man  of  your  age  and  known  charac- 
ter is  beyond  question  competent  to  use  his  judgment  in  such 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


a  matter  and  that  I  cannot  believe  you  so  unworthy  of  the 
family  traditions  as  she  feels  you  to  have  shown  yourself. 
In  any  case,  I  disapprove  heartily  of  any  public  break  or 
scandal,  and  in  the  event  of  her  failing  to  reverse  her  deci- 
sion, which  I  believe  to  be  too  severe  and  unjustifiable  in 
view  of  your  consistently  clean  record  in  all  your  family 
relations,  I  am  writing  to  offer  you,  in  your  aunt's  name  as 
well  as  my  own,  the  hospitality  of  our  house  as  long  as  you 
and  Mrs.  Bradley  care  to  avail  yourselves  of  it. 

With  every  hope  that  this  distressing  situation  may  be 
quietly  and  privately  adjusted,  and  regards  to  Mrs.  Bradley 
from  your  aunt  and  myself,  believe  me, 

Yours  faithfully, 

WOLCOTT  SEARS. 


[FROM  TIP  ELDER] 

UNIVERSITY  CLUB, 
NEW  YORK,  Sept.  i3th,  188— 
DEAR  JERRY: 

I  can't  resist  sending  you  a  line  to  tell  you  of  my  encounter 
with  Russell  Dodge,  just  now.  You  might  drop  Roger  a 
hint  of  it  if  you  like,  not  going  into  details,  of  course.  I 
hope  it  will  be  for  the  best.  I  was  so  hot  at  the  fellow's 
impertinence  I  let  myself  get  caught  into  a  lie,  I'm  afraid, 
but  like  Tom  Sawyer's  aunt,  I  can't  help  feeling  "it  was 
a  good  lie!" 

He  was  dining  here  with  a  set  of  pretty  well-known  New 
York  men  and  I  had  my  back  to  his  table.  Suddenly  I 
heard  Roger's  name  and  a  great  deal  of  laughing  and  in  a 
moment  I  found  myself  overhearing  (unavoidably)  a  dis- 
gusting and  scandalous  piece  of  gossip.  In  some  strange 
way  a  garbled  account  of  his  marriage  has  come  in  from 
Boston,  and  Dodge,  with  that  infernally  suggestive  way 
of  his,  was  cackling  about  Roger's  "jumping  over  the  broom- 
stick" with  a  "handsome  gypsy"  and  letting  his  relatives 
believe  the  thing  was  serious  in  order  to  tease  his  stiff-necked 
family. 

I  tell  you,  it  made  me  hot!     I  jumped  up  and  looked  that 


STRAWS  THAT  SHOWED  THE  WIND 

fellow  Dodge  as  straight  in  the  eye  as  anyone  can  look  him, 
and  said,  "I  beg  your  pardon  for  this  interruption,  Dodge, 
but  you  happen  to  be  making  more  of  a  fool  of  yourself  than 
usual.  As  regards  the  lady  you  are  speaking  of,  I  married 
her  myself  at  her  father's  country  place,  last  week,  with 
Winfred  Jerrolds  as  best  man." 

He  mumbled  something  or  other,  but  I  forced  him  to 
apologise  plainly,  and  they  all  heard  him.  Then  he  said 
that  he  had  understood  that  no  one  in  Boston  even  knew  what 
her  name  was,  and  I  said  almost  (I  hope !)  before  I  thought, 
"she  was  a  Miss  Prynne." 

Then  I  left  for  the  writing-room.  My  only  excuse  is  that 
Roger  himself  did  not  correct  that  fellow  from  the  station 
when  he  called  her  that,  and,  honestly,  I  couldn't  turn  on 
my  heel  and  leave  that  last  remark  open.  I'm  ready  to 
eat  dirt,  if  need  be,  but  for  a  fire-eating  parson  I  still  think 
I  did  pretty  well !  To  think  of  my  running  against  Dodge 
again  after  all  these  years — you  remember  our  famous  duel  ? 

What  a  strange  day  we  had  out  there!  Let  me  know 
how  Roger  feels  about  it.  It's  sure  to  be  in  the  papers  now, 
I  suppose.  The  name,  I  mean — I've  quashed  the  other 
part,  of  course. 

Yours  faithfully, 

TYLER  FESSENDEN  ELDER. 


[FROM  SUE  PAYNTER] 

3 —  WASHINGTON  SQUARE, 

Sept.  i4th,  188— 
JERRY  DEAR: 

It  occurred  to  me  in  the  middle  of  the  night  that  you 
might  be  excused  for  thinking  me  cold  and  uninterested 
in  your  request  apropos  of  Roger's  wife,  and  I  can't  bear 
you  to  think  so  for  a  moment.  Shall  I  be  quite  frank  (and 
how  foolish  to  be  anything  else  with  you,  dear  Win!)  and 
admit  that  I  was  just  a  little  hurt  that  Roger  had  not  told 
me?  It  was  stupid  of  me,  I  know,  and  I  hereby  forgive 
him — before  he  asks  me,  par  exemple!  I  do  it  thus  quickly, 
I  am  afraid,  because  of  an  unusually  nasty  letter  from  Sarah. 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


How  can  a  woman  be  so  good  and  yet  so  horrid  ?    If  Roger 
has  been  unwise,  all  the  more  reason  for  us  to  stand  by  him! 

But  apparently  he  has  not,  and  you  are  under  the  same 
spell  that  bewitched  him — don't  attempt  to  deny  it.  Madam 
Bradley  threatens  us  all  with  excommunication,  it  seems,  but 
n'importe — she  has  been  kind  to  me,  in  her  alabaster  way, 
but  it  is  incredible  that  I  should  desert  Roger  after  his 
unspeakable  goodness  to  me. 

I  will  meet  you  whenever  and  wherever  you  say  and  give 
the  new  Mrs.  Roger  the  benefit  of  whatever  good  taste 
Providence  has  blessed  me  with — I  am  a  past  mistress  of 
the  art  of  a  hasty  trousseau,  I  assure  you!  And  I  pray  she 
may  wear  hers  more  happily  than  I  did  mine. 

Be  sure  to  let  me  know  the  moment  I  am  wanted.  Let 
Roger  know  how  glad  I  am — if  he  asks.  What  friends 
you  two  are!  I  wonder  if  you  know  what  you  are  losing? 
Probably  not — men  don't  foresee,  I  suppose. 

Your  friend  always, 

SUE  PAYNTER. 


[FROM  MY  ATTORNEYS] 

SEARS,  BRADLEY  AND  SEARS 

Attorneys  and  Counsellors-at-Law 
Cable  Address,  Vellashta 

2 —  COURT  STREET,  BOSTON,  MASS. 

Sept.  1 2th,  1 88— 
WINFRED  JERROLDS,  ESQ., 
University  Club, 

New  York,  N.  Y. 
DEAR  SIR: 

We  are  instructed  by  the  heirs  and  next-of-kin  of  the 
late  Mr.  Winthrop  Bradley  and  by  Mr.  Sears  Bradley,  as  his 
administrator  appointed  by  the  Probate  Court,  to  advise 
you  that  the  will  of  Mr.  Winthrop  Bradley,  of  the  existence 
of  which  we  have  so  long  felt  confident,  has  finally  been 
discovered  in  an  unexpected  way  and  that  you  are  the  prin- 
cipal legatee  thereunder. 
[116] 


STRAWS  THAT  SHOWED  THE  WIND 

We  are  further  instructed  to  advise  you  that  its  genu- 
ineness is  unquestioned.  We  are  already  taking  steps  to 
probate  the  will  here  and  in  North  Carolina. 

You  will  see  by  the  will,  of  which  we  enclose  you  copy, 
that  Mr.  Winthrop  Bradley  bequeathed  to  you  $100,000 

— in  bonds  of  the Co.,  which  bear  4^  per  cent,  interest, 

and  in  addition  his  lands  in  and Counties, 

North  Carolina,  which  aggregate  about  12,000  acres,  and 
of  which  a  part  has  been  farmed  on  shares  for  a  number  of 
years  past,  bringing  in  an  annual  income  varying  between 
$75  and  $250  above  the  taxes  on  the  whole  tract. 

We  shall  be  pleased  to  receive  any  instructions  you  de- 
sire to  give  us  in  the  premises.  We  remain, 

Yours  very  respectfully, 

SEARS,  BRADLEY  AND  SEARS. 


[ROGER'S  TELEGRAM  TO  ME] 

News  of  will  forwarded  in  packet  from  office.  More  glad 
than  can  say,  deserve  it  all.  Cold  wave  here  and  shall 
take  noon  express  Thursday.  Sail  Saturday.  R.  B. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  ISLAND  COTTAGE 

I  HAVE  hitherto  said  nothing  about  the  Bank,  for  the  best 
of  reasons — I  hate  it.  I  hated  it,  I  think,  from  the  day  when 
a  letter  from  one  of  my  father's  friends  introduced  me  to  it, 
until  the  day  when  the  letter  from  the  legal  firm  of  which 
Roger's  uncle  had  been  the  brilliant  head  released  me 
from  it.  I  do  not  think,  however,  that  many  people  knew 
this.  I  did  my  work  as  well  as  I  could,  accepted  my  period- 
ical advances  in  salary  with  a  becoming  gratitude,  saved  a 
little  each  year,  and  quieted  my  eruptions  of  furious  disgust 
with  the  recollection  of  my  mother's  unhindered  disposal 
of  her  little  legacy  since  the  day  I  left  the  university. 

If  anyone  had  told  me  that  on  a  day  in  early  autumn  I 
should  suddenly  come  into  a  thousand  pounds  a  year  and  free- 
dom, I  should  have  caught  my  breath  at  the  very  idea,  and  here 
was  the  thing,  a  fact  accomplished,  and  here  was  I,  not  only 
quite  self-contained,  but  sober  beyond  my  wont,  and  ready 
to  take  the  Bank  and  all  its  stodgy  horror  upon  my  shoulders, 
if  with  it  I  might  have  had  one  thing — one  woman!  The 
world  was  before  me,  where  to  choose,  all  the  far  corners 
and  reaches  for  which  I  had  inherited  the  hunger  with  the 
blood  that  ran  in  my  veins — and  if  I  might  only  have  been 
the  first  to  find  one  lonely,  insignificant  point  on  the  Atlantic 
coast,  my  heart  would  have  journeyed  there,  content,  and 
ceased  (or  so  I  thought)  its  wanderings.  Truly  our  joys  are 
tempered  for  us,  and  no  shorn  lamb  was  ever  more  care- 
fully protected  from  the  winds  of  heaven  than  we  from  too 
much  joy.  It  is  an  actual  fact  that  I  regarded  my  resigna- 
tion from  the  drudgery  of  twelve  years,  the  disposal  of  my 
[118] 


THE   ISLAND    COTTAGE 

rooms  and  furniture,  the  heartening  preliminaries  with  the 
lawyers,  and  my  booking  at  the  steamship  company's  offices, 
with  less  interest  than  the  successful  transportation  of 
Margarita's  wedding  gift. 

It  was  with  a  real  thrill  of  pleasure  that  I  drew  out  my 
small  savings — a  little  over  a  thousand  pounds — and  with 
the  breathless  assistance  of  Sue  Paynter  and  a  famous 
actress  of  her  acquaintance  selected  the  most  perfect  single 
pearl  to  be  purchased  for  that  money.  One  of  the  heads  of 
the  great  firm  whose  name  has  been  long  associated  with 
American  wealth  and  luxury  himself  lent  a  discerning  hand 
to  the  selection,  and  for  the  first  time  I  tasted  the  snobbish 
joy  of  sitting  at  ease  in  a  dainty  private  room  while  respectful 
officials  brought  the  splendours  of  the  Orient  to  my  lordly 
knees,  and  lesser  buyers  hung  unattended  over  the  common 
counters.  Except  in  the  purchase  of  my  first  gift  for  my 
mother — a  tiny  diamond  sword-hilt,  in  memory  of  my 
father — I  have  never  experienced  so  much  pleasure. 

It  hung,  a  great  blob  of  veined,  milky  whiteness,  from  a 
strong  but  tiny  golden  chain — a  gift  for  a  Rajah,  not  a 
bank-official!  I  had  never  expended  so  much,  or  half  so 
much,  upon  a  single  purchase,  and  the  pale,  native  thrift  of 
Old  and  New  England  together  glowed  and  thrilled  scarlet 
in  me,  and  the  lucent,  moonlike  sphere  flushed  into  a  ruby 
before  my  dazzled  eyes:  I  knew  then  how  an  eager  chief 
will  toss  away  a  province  for  an  emerald — if  he  may  lay  the 
jewel  upon  the  neck  of  all  the  world  for  him! 

I  had  the  clasp  engraved  with  her  name — itself  a  pearl — 
and  slipped  the  delicate  case  in  my  pocket.  The  great  come- 
dienne, whom  I  have  always  thought  the  sweetest  of  women 
— but  one — talked  a  moment  aside  at  the  smiling  request  of 
the  master  jeweller  and  then  whispered  laughingly  to  Sue  with 
the  most  artfully  artless  glance  at  me.  Sue,  who  was  a  little 
drawn  and  white  from  her  enemy  neuralgia,  murmured  to 
me  in  French  that  I  had  the  honour  to  render  desolate  Miss 
L n  R 1,  the  reigning  stage  beauty,  who  was  greatly 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


desirous  of  precisely  that  pearl  and  whose  too  vacillating  ad- 
mirer would  doubtless  enjoy  his  bad  little  quarter  hour  & 
cause  de  moi.  I  do  not  deny  that  this  put  a  point  to  my 
satisfaction.  I  was,  in  fact,  idiotically  gratified — God 
and  man  that  is  born  of  woman  alone  know  why. 

I  hurried  to  the  dingy  station  as  a  boy  hurries  to  the  train 
that  will  take  him  home  to  the  holidays,  and  the  tedious 
hours  were  miraculously  light,  the  face  of  the  telegraph 
operator  like  the  face  of  my  best  friend,  the  rough,  damp 
passage  in  the  blue  boat  a  pleasant  incident.  Caliban  had 
a  friendly,  stupid  grin  for  me  and  rowed  his  best;  the  very 
oars  knew  how  I  wanted  to  get  to  her! 

They  stood  with  a  lantern  on  the  landing-steps,  in  the 
rough,  picturesque  clothes  I  had  first  seen  them  in,  and  we 
hurried  through  a  thickening  drizzle  to  the  warm,  light 
cottage,  ridiculously  hand-in-hand,  the  lantern  bobbing 
between  us. 

Roger  had  revived  his  old  school  accomplishments  and 
had  ready  a  panful  of  delicious  little  sausages  in  a  bath  of 
tomatoes  and  onions  and  Worcestershire  that  sent  me  back  to 
Vevay  in  the  fraction  of  a  second,  and  we  dipped  fragments 
of  the  crusty  French  loaf  I  had  brought  in  the  sauce,  in  the 
old  Vevay  fashion,  and  drank  to  their  voyage  in  the  last 
Burgundy  from  the  little  wine  bin.  If  anything  were  needed 
to  place  Margarita's  father  in  our  estimations,  that  Burgundy 
would  have  done  it!  After  the  sweet  course  of  jellied  pan- 
cakes that  Roger  had  taught  Caliban,  we  fell  upon  the 
cigars  I  had  brought,  and  when  Margarita,  an  apt  pupil,  had 
sugared  my  demi-tasse  to  my  liking,  I  reached  into  my  pocket 
and  drew  out  the  Russia  leather  case.  My  fingers  trembled 
like  a  boy's  as  I  took  out  the  pearl  and  clasped  it  around  her 
beautiful  neck,  above  the  soft  black  handkerchief. 

"  If  this  is  not  your  first  wedding  present,  Mrs.  Bradley, 
I  shall  be  furiously  angry,"  I  said  with  mock  severity,  to 
keep  down  the  lump  in  my  throat,  for  I  was  absurdly 
excited. 

[120] 


THE   ISLAND    COTTAGE 

"Jerry,  you  extravagant  old  donkey,  what  do  you  mean 
by  this?"  Roger  cried  huskily,  "I  never  heard  of  such  a 
thing!"  While  Margarita,  for  the  first  time  in  our  acquaint- 
ance a  daughter  of  Eve,  ran  up  to  her  mirror.  She  would 
have  been  as  pleased,  I  think,  with  a  necklace  of  iridescent 

seashells — wherein  she  differed  widely  from  Miss  L n 

R 1,  as  Roger  and  I  agreed. 

We  talked,  of  course,  of  Uncle  Winthrop  and  the  old  days,  of 
his  loving  interest  in  me,  the  slender  little  chap  with  the  dead 
soldier-father,  who  had  taken  long  walks  up  and  down  nar- 
row old  Winter  Street  with  him,  and  mailed  his  letters,  and 
fenced  with  his  sword,  and  listened  by  the  hour  to  his  tales 
of  rainy  bivouac  and  last  redoubt,  of  precious  drops  of  brandy 
to  a  dying  comrade  and  brave  loans  of  army  blankets  in  the 
cold  dawn.  We  wondered  at  the  extraordinary  chance  which 
had  kept  the  old  portfolio,  with  its  worn  leather  edges 
that  I  remembered  so  well,  hidden  during  the  two  years  that 
had  elapsed  since  his  death,  and  what  secretive  instinct  had 
led  him  to  put  his  last  will  and  testament  there.  We  mar- 
velled at  the  sagacity  which  had  led  him  to  drop  hints  as  to 
the  existence  of  such  a  document  so  effectively  that  the 
family  had  felt  themselves  bound  to  hold  the  property  intact 
for  three  years,  to  give  every  possible  chance  of  finding  it,  and 
had  spent  many  useless  dollars  in  the  search  for  the  old 
servants  who  were  believed  (and  rightly,  as  the  event  proved) 
to  have  witnessed  it.  Our  friendship  had  been  more  than 
ordinary  in  its  strength  and  real  sympathy;  one  of  those  at- 
tractions that  laugh  at  disparity  of  years  and  absence  of  any 
tie  of  kinship,  and,  indeed,  up  to  his  death  I  had  been  far 
closer  to  him  than  Roger  ever  was.  Dear  old  Uncle  Win! 
He  knew  what  he  would  do  for  me  and  what  it  would  mean 
to  me,  well  enough:  as  a  young  fellow,  he  had  been  tied  to 
his  Bank! 

I  spoke  tentatively  of  Sue  Paynter,  and  Roger  flushed  and 
struck  the  table  in  his  disgusted  excitement. 

"Good  heavens,  Jerry — I  never  once  thought " 

[121] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


Poor  Sue!    There  was  nothing  more  to  say. 

"The  first  thing  I  want  you  to  do  for  me,  Jerry,"  said 
Roger,  "is  to  go  through  the  cottage  thoroughly  and  see  if 
you  discover  any  trace  of  who  lived  here.  I've  done  it, 
of  course,  but  I'd  like  to  have  some  one  else  do  it,  too.  Go 
all  by  yourself,  and  I  won't  give  you  any  hint  of  my  idea, 
and  then  we'll  compare  notes." 

Nothing,  just  then,  could  have  interested  me  more,  and  I 
started  systematically  for  the  cellar  steps,  lantern  in  hand. 

The  first  thing  that  struck  me  was  the  trim  neatness  of 
this  part  of  the  house,  too  often — and  especially  in  country 
districts — neglected.  The  steps  were  firm  and  clean  and 
nearly  dustless,  the  cement  floor  dry  and  apparently  freshly 
swept,  the  walls  and  ceiling  well  whitened  with  lime.  Bins 
of  vegetables,  a  barrel  of  summer  apples,  a  cask  of  vinegar 
on  two  trestles  with  a  pail  thriftily  set  for  the  drippings,  a 
wire  cupboard  with  plates  of  food  set  there  for  the  cellar 
coolness,  and  in  one  corner  a  little  dairy  compartment, 
built  over  a  spring  covered  by  a  wooden  trap-door,  completed 
the  furnishings  of  the  floor.  For  the  rest,  the  place  was  a 
fairly  well-stocked  tool-house;  a  scythe  and  a  grindstone, 
snow-shovel  and  ladders  were  arranged  compactly;  a 
watering-pot  and  rake  stood  fresh  from  use  by  the  door. 

A  low  cow-stall  came  next  and  beyond  this  a  fowl  roost, 
both  these  last  noticeably  clean  and  sweet,  and  this  in  a  day 
when  the  microbe  and  the  germ  were  not  such  prominent 
factors  in  our  civilisation  as  they  are  at  present. 

I  retraced  my  steps  and  went  through  the  living- 
room  to  the  room  beyond  it,  over  the  shed  and  dairy. 
It  was  a  fair-sized  study,  unmistakably  a  man's. 
The  end  wall  held  the  fireplace,  with  a  large  map  of 
the  world  hung  over  it.  The  ocean  side  of  the  cottage 
was  windowless  and  lined  with  well-used  books  on  pine 
shelves.  These  overflowed  on  the  wall  which  held  the 
entrance  door,  and  where  they  stopped  a  sort  of  trophy  of 
arms  was  arranged  on  the  wall.  An  army  revolver,  a  great 
[122] 


THE    ISLAND    COTTAGE 

Western  six-shooter,  a  fine  little  hunting-piece,  a  grim 
Ghoorka  knife  and  an  assegai,  which  I  recognised  from  simi- 
lar treasures  on  the  barrack  wall  of  an  English  friend  of 
mine — an  infantry  major — one  or  two  bayonets,  a  curious 
Japanese  sword  and  a  curved  dagger  whose  workmanship 
was  quite  unknown  to  me,  completed  this  decoration,  which 
was  the  only  one  on  the  walls.  In  the  centre  of  the  floor 
stood  a  large  table-desk  of  well-polished  cherry  with  a  heavy 
glass  ink-well,  pin-tray,  letter-rack,  etc.,  and  a  fair,  clean 
square  of  blotting-paper.  But  none  of  the  customary  litter 
of  such  a  desk  was  upon  it;  all  was  swept  and  garnished, 
orderly  and  bare.  The  drawers  were  empty,  the  ink-well 
pure,  the  very  pens  new.  There  was  not  the  faintest  hint  of 
what  work  had  gone  on  at  that  desk. 

I  crossed  the  room  and  took  down  a  book  here  and  there 
at  random  from  the  shelves.  From  one  or  two,  evidently 
old  ones,  the  fly  leaves  had  been  neatly  cut  out;  others  had 
no  mark  of  any  kind.  It  came  over  me  with  a  staggering 
certainty  that  here  was  no  careless,  makeshift  impulse; 
a  methodical,  definite  annihilation  had  been  intended  and 
accomplished.  An  extraordinary  man  had  arranged  this. 
What  was  the  secret  he  had  concealed  so  perfectly,  and  what 
had  been  his  motive  ?  What  his  necessity  ?  Three  or  four 
comfortable  chairs  and  a  light  wicker  table  completed  the 
furniture  of  the  room,  which  held — for  me — the  strange 
fascination  of  the  living-room,  that  deep,  impersonal  sense 
of  culture,  that  rigorous  suppression  of  whim  and  irrelevant 
detail.  The  man  (not  so  long  dead,  probably)  who  stood 
behind  that  room  had  stamped  it  indelibly,  inevitably  with 
the  very  character  he  had  tried  to  eliminate  from  it.  One 
wanted  to  have  known  him:  one  felt  instinctively  what  a 
firm  grip,  what  a  level  eye  he  had. 

The  books  were  almost  as  little  tell-tale  as  the  rest.  A 
fine  set  of  the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica;  histories  of  all 
sorts,  but  only  the  best  in  every  case;  a  little  standard  poetry; 
the  great  English  novelists — Dickens  much  worn,  Meredith's 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


early  works,  the  unquenchable  Charles  Reade,  who  has 
nursed  so  many  fretful  convalescents  back  to  the  harness; 
two  or  three  fine  editions  of  Shakespeare,  one,  a  half-dozen 
small  green  volumes,  worn  loose  from  their  bindings;  Dar- 
win, Huxley,  and  a  dozen  blazers  of  that  wonderful  trail, 
much  underlined  and  cross-indexed,  and  a  really  remarkable 
collection  of  the  great  scientific  travellers  and  explorers,  that 
occupied  much  space;  and  a  fair  collection  of  French  fiction 
and  archaeological  research  and  German  scientific  and 
historical  work  completed  my  first  rough  impression  of  this 
library.  I  have  gone  over  it  very  carefully  since,  and  amused 
myself  with  noting  its  omissions — quite  as  significant  in 
such  cases  as  the  actual  contents.  No  classics  but  the  usual 
school  and  college  text-books;  no  recent  fiction;  almost  no 
American  literature  except  the  most  reliable  of  the  historians; 
none  of  the  essayists  or  belle-lettrists,  except  Carlyle,  Macau- 
lay,  and  such  like  heavy  artillery;  nothing  whatever  of  a 
religious  nature  but  a  small,  worn  Bible  thick  with  dust, 
on  the  top  shelf  among  the  school-books.  And  there  was 
not  in  the  whole  library  one  page  or  line  or  word  to  indicate 
that  its  owner  was  conversant  with  or  interested  in  Italian 
or  Italy. 

O  builder  of  that  sand-hued  cottage,  owner  of  that  manly 
room  of  books,  how  many  hours  have  I  devoted  to  patient 
study  of  you!  How  many  nights  have  I  hunted  you  down, 
searched  you  out,  compelled  you  to  reveal  yourself  to  me — 
and  how  strangely  have  I  succeeded!  It  has  been  a  labour 
of  love,  and  I  have  sometimes  felt  I  know  your  mind  almost 
as  my  own. 

In  the  outside  further  corner  of  the  room  a  narrow,  steep 
flight  of  steps  led  to  the  second  story  and  lent  a  queer  little 
foreign  air  to  the  whole.  Ascending,  I  found  myself  in  a 
small  room  with  one  door — its  only  entrance — and  one  win- 
dow. For  a  moment  I  had  a  curious  sense  of  the  English 
barracks  and  seemed  to  be  in  the  major's  sleeping-room 
again.  A  low  cot-bed  with  a  narrow  rug  beside,  a  pine 


THE    ISLAND    COTTAGE 

washing-stand  and  a  chest  of  drawers,  a  straight  chair  and 
small  bed-table  with  a  reflecting  candle  and  match  box 
upon  it,  and  a  flat  tin  bath  furnished  this  room,  which 
was,  like  all  the  others,  speckless.  A  small  shaving- 
mirror  was  attached  at  convenient  height  near  the  window; 
razor  and  strop  hung  beside  it.  All  this  I  took  in 
at  a  glance,  without  turning,  but  when  I  did  turn  and  con- 
fronted the  entrance  wall,  I  caught  my  breath.  For  there 
on  the  space  directly  opposite  the  bed  hung  what,  for  a 
moment,  I  took  to  be  a  portrait  of  Margarita. 

I  moved  closer  and  saw  that  it  was  a  wonderfully  perfect 
etching  of  a  head  by  Henner — a  first  impression,  beyond  a 
doubt.  It  was  a  girl's  head,  half  life  size,  almost  in  profile, 
white  against  the  dark  rain  of  her  hair,  which  covered  her 
shoulders  and  bust  and  blackened  all  the  rest  of  the  picture. 
The  haunting  melancholy,  the  youth,  the  purity  of  that 
face  have  become  so  associated  with  Margarita  and  her 
home  and  that  part  of  my  life  that  I  can  never  separate  them, 
though  it  has  been  more  than  once  pointed  out  to  me,  and 
fairly,  I  dare  say,  that  the  picture  does  not  resemble  her  so 
much  as  I  think,  that  her  type  of  beauty  is  larger,  less  con- 
ventional, infinitely  richer,  and  that,  aside  from  the  really 
unusually  suggestive  accident  of  her  likeness,  it  is  only 
a  general  effect. 

Well,  well,  it  may  be.  But  I  dare  to  believe  that  I  under- 
stand, perhaps  better  than  anybody,  why  it  hung  facing 
that  bare  cot-bed,  and  what  it  meant  to  the  man  who  slept 
so  many  years  of  his  life  there,  dreaming  of  the  woman  for 
whose  sake  he  hung  it.  He  knew  what  it  recalled  to  him  even 
as  I  know  what  it  means  to  me,  and  to  both  of  us  it  was 
more  than  any  portrait.  For  we  are  fearfully  and  wonder- 
fully made  so  that  no  reality  shall  ever  content  us,  and  those 
sudden  sunsets  and  bars  of  music  and  the  meaning  glance 
of  pictured  eyes  are  to  teach  us  this.  .  .  . 

The  picture  (etched  by  Waltner)  was  framed  in  a  broad 
band  of  dull  gold,  and  under  it,  on  a  rery  slender,  delicately 

[125] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


carved  teak-wood  stand  whose  inlaid  top  just  held  it,  was 
a  silver  bowl  full  of  orange  and  yellow  and  flaming  nastur- 
tiums. They  were  quite  fresh  and  must  have  been  put 
there  that  morning,  for  the  dew  was  still  on  the  pale 
leaves. 

It  was  inexpressibly  touching,  this  altar-like,  vivid  touch 
in  the  austere  room,  and  I  stood,  drowned  in  a  wave  of  pity 
and  passionate  regret — for  what  I  could  not  quite  tell — 
before  it,  overwhelmed  by  the  close,  compelling  pressure  of 
these  mysterious  dead  loves :  all  over  now  and  gone  ?  Ah, 
who  knows?  Who  can  know?  Not  Darwin  nor  Huxley, 
be  sure! 

I  went  down  the  stairs,  crossed  the  study  and  living- 
room,  and  after  a  comprehensive  glance  over  the  little  kitchen 
ell  with  its  simple  batterie  de  cuisine  went  up  the  main  stair- 
case, and  entered  the  room  over  the  study.  Here  again 
was  a  surprise,  for  this  room  was  completely  furnished  in 
delicate,  light  bird's-eye  maple,  fit  for  a  marquise,  all  dainty 
lemon-tinted  curves.  The  exquisite  bed  was  framed  for  a 
canopy,  but  lacked  it;  the  coral  satin  recesses  of  the  dressing- 
table  had  faded  almost  colourless;  the  chintz  of  the  slender 
chairs  had  lost  its  pattern.  An  oval  cheval  glass  reflected 
the  floor  on  whose  long  unpolished  surface  sprawled  two 
magnificent  white  bear  skins.  But  with  these  furnishings 
the  elegance  ended,  for  nowhere  in  the  cottage  were  to  be  found 
such  curious,  mocking  contrasts.  The  walls,  which  should 
have  displayed  wanton  Watteau  cherubs,  were  bare,  clean 
grey;  instead  of  a  satin  coverlet  a  patchwork  quilt  covered 
the  fluted  bed;  no  scented  glass  and  ivory  and  silver- 
stoppered  armoury  of  beauty  crowded  the  dressing-table,  only 
a  plain  brush  and  comb  such  as  one  might  see  in  some 
servant's  quarters;  the  beautiful  grained  wardrobe's  doors, 
carelessly  ajar,  spilled  no  foam  and  froth  of  lace  and  ribbon 
and  silk  stocking:  only  a  beggarly  handful  of  clean,  well- 
worn  print  gowns  hung  from  the  shining  pegs.  A  battered 
tin  bath  and  water-can  stood  beneath  the  window,  and  on  a 
[126] 


THE    ISLAND   COTTAGE 

graceful  cushioned  prie-dieu  instead  of  a  missal  lay — of  all 
things — a  mouse  trap. 

I  have  never  in  my  life  stood  in  a  room  so  contradictory, 
so  utterly  unrelated  to  its  supposed  intention.  Occupied  it 
certainly  was:  towels  and  soap  and  sponge,  and  night- 
gown neatly  folded  on  the  patchwork  quilt,  showed  that. 
But  of  all  teasing  suggestion  of  femininity,  all  the  whimsical, 
rosy  privacy  of  a  girl's  bedchamber,  all  the  dainty  nonsense 
and  pretty  purity,  half  artless,  half  artful,  with  which 
romance  has  invested  this  retreat  and  poetry  and  song  have 
serenaded  it,  Margarita's  apartment  was  entirely  void.  Even 
its  spotlessness  was  not  remarkable  in  a  house  so  noticeable 
everywhere  for  this  quality,  and  as  for  personality,  a  nun's 
cell  has  more.  I  think  that  its  utter  scentlessness  added  to  the 
peculiar  impression;  there  was  not  a  suggestion  of  this  femi- 
nine allurement;  not  even  the  homely  lavender  or  the 
reminiscent  dried  roses  hinted  at  the  most  matter-of-fact 
housewife's  concession  to  her  sex. 

And  yet  it  had  its  own  charm,  this  strange  room,  a  peculiar 
French  quality,  provided,  perhaps,  by  the  mingling  of  yel- 
low furniture  and  soft  grey  wall  spaces;  and  a  quaint  atmos- 
phere of  something  once  alive  and  breathing  and  daintily 
fleshly,  cooled  and  faded  and  chastened  by  inexorable 
time.  .  .  . 

I  slept  that  night  in  the  room  with  the  etching  (the  silver 
bowl  was  filled  with  marigolds)  and  all  night  I  heard  the. 
roar  of  the  surf  and  the  hiss  of  the  breaking  waves  through 
my  busy  dreams. 

I  woke  into  a  clear  storm-swept  morning,  just  after  the 
dawn,  very  suddenly,  and  with  no  apparent  reason  for  the 
waking.  That  is  to  say,  I  thought  I  woke,  but  knew  in- 
stantly that  it  must  be  a  very  pleasant  and  odd  species  of 
dream,  for  there  in  the  quiet  light,  at  the  foot  of  my  bed — 
quite  on  it,  in  fact — sat  Margarita.  She  smiled  placidly, 
classic  in  her  long  white  nightgown,  and  I  smiled  placidly 
back  as  one  does  in  dreams,  and  prayed  not  to  wake. 

[127] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


"You  speak  when  you  sleep  do  you  not,  Jerry?"  she 
said  calmly,  "because  you  called  my  name,  but  your  eyes 
were  closed." 

Then  a  cold  sweat  broke  out  on  my  forehead  and  I  clenched 
my  hands  under  the  blankets,  for  I  knew  I  was  awake. 

"  Margarita ! "  I  gasped,  "  what  is  it  ?    Why  are  you  here  ?  " 

"Because  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you,  Jerry,"  she  answered 
pleasantly.  " Roger  is  asleep.  Do  you  like  this  little  room? 
It  is  my  father's." 

Her  hair  hung  in  two  braids;  one  rosy  bare  foot  showed 
under  her  nightgown,  as  she  sat,  her  hands  clasped  about 
her  knees,  like  a  boy.  The  upper  button  of  the  gown  was 
loose  and  I  saw  my  milky,  gleaming  pearl  around  her  neck ; 
it  was  no  whiter  than  her  even  teeth. 

"Get  down,"  I  said  sternly,  "get  off  the  bed  immediately 
and  go  back  to  your  room.  You  ought  not  to  have  come 
here!" 

"But  I  do  not  want  to  get  down,  Jerry — the  floor  is  cold. 
Roger  is  asleep  and  he  cannot  talk  to  me.  It  is  like  being 
alone,  when  anyone  is  asleep.  Do  you  not  want  to  talk  to 
me,  Jerry?" 

"Yes,  I  want  to  talk  to  you,  well  enough,"  I  answered  in 
a  sort  of  stupor,  "but — but  you  must  go.  Please  go, 
Margarita!" 

In  her  abominable  perspicacity  she  answered  what  I 
meant,  not  what  I  said. 

"No,"  said  she,  shaking  her  head  adorably,  "I  shall  not 
go.  Why  do  you  pull  the  blanket  up  to  your  chin  so  ?  Are 
you  cold,  too?" 

My  head  was  whirling  and  my  breath  came  uneven 
through  my  lips,  but  I  fixed  my  eyes  on  the  wall  over  her 
head,  and  this  time  there  was,  for  the  best  of  reasons,  no 
ambiguity  in  my  voice. 

"I  beg  and  implore  you,  Margarita,  to  get  down  at  once," 
I  said,  as  steadily  as  I  could.  "  It  is  not  at  all  proper  for  you 
to  be  here,  and  I  do  not  wish  it.  If  you  want  to  talk  to  me,  I 
[128] 


THE    ISLAND    COTTAGE 

will  dress  immediately  and  go  out  for  a  walk  with  you,  but 
not  unless  you  go  instantly.  Do  you  understand  me  ?  " 

She  sighed  plaintively  and  unclasped  her  hands  from  her 
knees. 

"Yes,  I  understand  you,  Jerry,"  she  said,  dropping 
her  voice  that  haunting  third,  "but  I  would  rather " 

"Are  you  going?"  I  cried. 

"Y-yes,  I  am  going,"  she  murmured,  and  with  what  I 
knew  were  backward  imploring  glances  and  argumentative 
pouts  she  slipped  down,  hesitatingly,  hopefully,  as  a  child 
retreats,  and  pattered  across  to  the  door. 

When  I  lowered  my  eyes  the  room  was  empty — but  where 
she  had  sat  the  blanket  was  yet  warm! 


[129] 


CHAPTER  XV 

FATE  PLAYS  ME  IN  THE  SHALLOWS 

TO-DAY  I  dived  into  one  of  my  boxes  for  some  warmer 
underclothing  and  stumbled  upon  a  pair  of  rubber-soled 
shoes  for  deck  wear.  They  brought  the  great  boat  before  me 
in  a  flash  and  then  the  wharves  and  then  the  little  group  that 
had  gathered  at  the  long  pier  on  that  Saturday  morning  so 
long  ago — Wolcott  Sears  and  his  wife,  Sue,  white  as  a  ghost, 
Tip  Elder  and  I,  with  Roger  and  Margarita  leaning  over  the 
rail.  She  had  on  a  long,  tight-fitting  travelling  coat  of  slate 
grey  and  a  quaint,  soft  little  felt  hat  with  a  greyish-white 
gull  that  sprawled  over  the  top  of  it.  She  looked  taller  than 
I  had  ever  seen  her,  and  her  hair,  drawn  up  high  on  her 
head,  made  her  face  more  like  a  cameo  than  ever,  for  she 
was  pale  from  the  excitement  and  fatigue  of  shopping.  On 
her  hand,  as  she  waved  it  with  that  lovely,  free  curve  of  all 
her  gestures,  shone  the  great  star  sapphire  Roger  had  bought 
her,  set  heavily  about  with  brilliants,  a  wonderful  thing: 
all  cloudy  and  grey,  like  her  eyes,  and  then  all  densely  blue, 
like  her  eyes,  and  now  stormy  and  dark,  like  her  eyes,  and 
always,  and  most  of  all,  like  her  eyes,  with  that  fiery  blue 
point  lurking  in  the  heart  of  it. 

It  was  her  birth  stone — an  odd  bit  of  sentimental  super- 
stition for  Roger  to  have  cherished — and  his  own  as  well,  for 
they  were  both  born  in  September.  Her  father  had  told  her 
of  this  on  one  of  the  few  occasions  when  he  seemed  to  have 
talked  with  her  at  any  length,  and  like  all  his  remarks  it 
had  made  a  great  impression  upon  her.  Anything  more 
violently  at  odds  with  the  theory  of  planetary  influence  it 

[130] 


FATE  PLAYS  ME  IN  THE  SHALLOWS 

would  be  hard  to  find,  for  two  people  more  fundamentally 
unlike  each  other  than  Roger  and  his  wife,  I  never  met. 

And  yet  .  .  .  and  yet  (for  I  am  not  so  sure  as  to  what  is 
"absurd  now  that  my  half -century  milestone  is  well  be- 
hind, and  those  months  in  Egypt  taught  me  that  much  of 
the  inexplicable  is  terribly  true)  shall  I  leave  out  of  this 
rambling  tale  the  moment  of  attention  due  the  old  horoscopist 
of  Paris?  I  think  not. 

He  was  withered  and  heavily  spectacled  and  absent- 
minded  to  a  degree  I  have  never  seen  equalled.  Shall  I 
ever  forget  the  day  he  made  a  soapy  mixture  in  a  great  tin 
pan  in  his  little  garret  in  the  Rue  Serpente,  produced  a  long, 
clean  clay  pipe,  delivered  to  me  a  neat  if  extraordinary 
little  lecture  on  the  experiment  he  was  about  to  make  and 
the  inferences  I  must  draw  from  it  if  it  succeeded — and  then, 
with  his  prismatic  bubbles  all  unblown,  gravely  sat  down 
in  the  pan!  He  gazed  stupefied  at  me  when  I  pointed  out  his 
error. 

"//  ne  manquerait  que  fa!"  he  snapped  at  length,  and  as 
he  had  no  other  suit  of  clothes,  he  went  resignedly  to  bed 
and  discoursed  there  most  learnedly.  He  was  seventy-five 
then  and  his  great  treatise  was  but  one-third  done:  the 
concierge  told  me  long  after  his  death  that  his  last  living 
act  was  to  burn  it,  with  the  tears  streaming  down  his  old 
face,  poor  old  fellow!  And  yet  he  was  one  of  the  happiest 
people  I  have  ever  known.  The  concierge  was  terribly  afraid 
of  him,  because  he  had  once  in  his  dry,  detached  way  pre- 
sented that  official  with  a  complete  chart  of  his  life,  tem- 
perament and  just  deserts,  neatly  done  in  coloured  inks  and 
mounted  on  cardboard.  It  was  so  devilishly  accurate  that 
the  concierge  trembled  whenever  he  passed  it,  which  was 
frequently,  as  his  wife  had  it  framed  and  hung  it  in  their 
bedroom. 

To  old  Papa  Morel,  then,  I  propounded  the  problem  of 
accounting  for  Margarita's  birth-month  having  been  Roger's, 
and  even  within  the  same  week.  Pressed  for  the  year  of  her 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


birth,  I  made  her  twenty-two,  at  which  the  old  man  scowled 
and  muttered  and  traced  with  his  cracked  yellow  nail  de- 
vious courses  through  his  great  map  of  the  heavens.  To 
tease  him  I  enumerated  a  few  of  her  qualities  and  habits, 
all  to  be  thoroughly  accounted  for  in  my  estimation,  by  her 
strange  environment  and  bringing  up;  but  far  from  exasper- 
ating him  further,  as  I  had  supposed  it  would,  this  recital 
appeared  to  please  him  mightily.  Shaking  his  finger  re- 
provingly, he  advised  me  no  longer  to  mock  myself  of  him, 
for  unknown  to  myself  I  had  exposed  my  own  deceit:  was 
I  so  utterly  unversed  in  the  heavenly  politics  as  not  to  know 
that  this  person  described  herself  fully  as  having  been  born 
four  years  previous  to  the  date  I  had  given  him,  in  the  year 
of  the  eclipse,  which  was  moreover  a  comet-year  and  one  in 
which  Uranus  usurped  the  throne  of  reigning  planets,  and 
breaking  all  bounds,  shadowed  that  fateful  season?  That 
Aquarius,  drawn  by  him,  had  imposed  himself,  too,  and 
affected  the  very  Moon  in  her  courses?  Indeed  she  would 
be  an  unbelievable  person,  that  one!  But  assuredly  she 
was  born  in  the  year  186 — .  And  when  we  finally  found 
the  year  of  Margarita's  birth,  it  was  precisely  the  year  stated 
by  Papa  Morel !  He  told  me,  moreover,  that  she  would  be  a 
great  artist,  at  which  I  laughed,  for  her  future  life  was 
fairly  well  mapped  out  for  her,  I  fancied,  knowing  Roger 
as  I  did.  He  told  me  that  she  would  be  in  grave  danger  of 
death  within  three  years,  and  then,  turning  to  a  horoscope 
of  my  own  which  he  had  insisted  upon  drawing,  he  ran  his 
yellow  finger  down  to  a  point  and  raising  his  mild,  fanatic 
eyes  to  mine,  remarked  that  at  precisely  that  time  it  was 
written  that  I  should  save  life!  At  which  I  smiled  politely 
and  said  that  I  hoped  I  should  save  Margarita's  and  he 
replied  politely  that  as  to  that  he  did  not  know. 

"  You  will  remark,"  he  added,  "  that  persons  born  in  that 
month  of  that  year  will  never  be  otherwise  than  far  out  of  the 
ordinary.  No.  And  mostly  artists:  dramatic,  musical — 
how  should  I  know  ?  You  will  remark,  also,  that  they  will 


PERSONS    BORN   IN   THAT    MONTH    OF 
THAT    YEAR    WILL   NEVER    BE 

OTHERWISE   THAN    FAR   OUT 
OF   THE    ORDINARY 


FATE  PLAYS  ME  IN  THE  SHALLOWS 

indubitably  possess  great  influence  over  the  lives  of  others — 
and  why  not,  with  Uranus  in  that  House  as  he  is,  opposing 
the  Moon?  Ah,  yes,  her  life  is  not  yet  lived,  that  one! " 

But  on  the  Saturday  that  found  us  waving  from  the  pier 
I  had  not  met  the  good  old  Morel,  and  I  was  not  thinking 
of  the  planets  at  all.  It  had  just  come  over  me  with  dread- 
ful distinctness  that  from  now  on  my  life  could  never,  never 
be  the  same.  When  I  had  first  parted  from  Roger  and 
Margarita,  the  poetic  strangeness  of  their  surroundings,  the 
shock  of  all  the  discoveries  I  had  just  made,  the  relief  of  find- 
ing our  friendship  secured  on  a  new  footing,  nay,  the  very 
darkness  of  the  mild  evening  through  which  I  was  rowed 
away  from  them  after  that  exciting  day,  all  combined  to  blunt 
my  sense  of  loneliness,  to  invest  it  with  a  gentle,  dreamy 
pathos  that  made  philosophy  not  too  hard.  It  was  like 
leaving  Ferdinand  and  Miranda  on  their  Isle  of  Dreams, 
with  my  blessing.  But  here  were  no  Ferdinand  and  Miranda ; 
only  a  handsome,  well-dressed  bride  and  her  handsome, 
well-dressed  husband-lover,  sailing  off  for  a  brilliantly  happy 
honeymoon  and  leaving  me  behind!  The  excitement  was 
gone,  the  past  was  over,  the  future  seemed  dreadfully  dull. 
My  English  blood,  the  blood  of  the  small  land-owner,  with 
occasional  military  generations,  forbade  my  plunging  into 
the  routine  of  business,  in  the  traditional  American  fashion, 
even  had  the  need  of  it  been  more  pressing.  It  may  as  well 
be  admitted  here  and  now  that  I  was  not  ambitious;  I 
never  (fortunately!)  felt  the  need  of  glory  or  high  places  and 
my  simple  fortune  was  to  me  wealth  and  to  spare — Mar- 
garita's pearl  was  the  greatest  extravagance  of  my  life.  Up 
to  this  point  I  had  never  seriously  realised  that  all  the  little, 
comfortable  details  of  that  little,  comfortable  bachelor  life 
of  ours  were  over  and  done,  the  rooms  into  which  we  had 
fitted  so  snugly,  rented,  perhaps,  at  that  moment,  the  table 
at  the  club  no  longer  ours  by  every  precedent,  the  vacations 
no  more  to  be  planned  together  and  enjoyed  together. 

The  ship  drew  out  into  the  harbour  and  I  leaned  hard 

[133] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


on  my  stick  and  wondered  drearily  how  long  I  was  likely  to 
live.  Oh,  I  admit  the  shamefulness  of  my  unmanly  state! 
I  might  have  been  drying  the  orphan's  tear  or  making  Morris 
chairs  or  purifying  local  politics,  but  I  wasn't. 

Tip  Elder  walked  over  to  me  and  put  his  hand  on  my 
shoulder. 

"Well,  that  baby's  face  is  washed!"  he  said  cheerily,  "as 
my  mother  puts  it.  And  I  hope  it's  going  to  turn  out  all 
right.  But  I  don't  believe  you  or  I  would  be  in  Roger's 
shoes  for  a  good  deal,  would  we  ?  " 

I  turned  on  him  fiercely. 

"Speak  for  yourself,  Elder!"  I  cried.  "I'd  give  most  of 
this  life  that  I  know  about  and  all  of  the  next  that  you 
don't,  to  be  for  a  little  while  in  Roger's  shoes!  Understand 
that!" 

And  brushing  by  him  and  utterly  neglecting  Sue  and  the 
Wolcott  Searses,  I  jumped  into  a  waiting  cab  and  hurried 
away  from  that  departing  vessel,  with  two-thirds  of  what  I 
loved  in  the  world  on  her  deck. 

I  took  one  last  look  at  our  old  rooms,  bare  and  clean,  now, 
for  my  things  were  sold  and  Roger's  stored;  I  gave  all  my 
clothes  to  the  house  valet,  to  his  intense  gratitude,  and  when, 
with  a  nervous  blow  of  my  favourite  cane — a  gift  from 
Roger — in  an  effort  to  beat  the  pile  of  cloth  on  the  floor  into 
symmetrical  shape,  the  stick  broke  in  the  middle,  I  came  as 
near  to  an  hysterical  laugh  as  I  ever  came  in  my  life. 

"Take  all  the  other  sticks,  Hodgson,"  I  said  huskily, 
"  and  the  racquets,  if  you  want  them.  And  give  the  rod  to 
the  night  porter — Richard  fishes,  I  know.  And  take  the 
undenvear,  too — yes,  all  of  it!" 

"And  the  trunk,  sir?    Where  would  you  wish ' 

"O  Lord,  take  the  trunk!"  I  burst  out,  for  the  familiar 
labels,  ay,  the  very  dints  in  the  brass  lock,  carried  only  sour 
memories  to  me,  now. 

"But,  sir,  you've  only  what  you  stand  in!"  the  man  cried, 
convinced,  I  am  certain,  that  I  contemplated  suicide.  "  I've 

[i34] 


FATE  PLAYS  ME  IN  THE  SHALLOWS 

got  the  day  to  get  through,  Hodgson,"  I  reassured  him,  "and 
the  shops  will  be  of  great  assistance!" 

I  left  him  gloating  over  his  windfall,  and  plunged  into 
haberdashery. 

Fortunately  for  my  nervous  loathing  of  all  my  old  pos- 
sessions, I  had  celebrated  Uncle  Win's  legacy  by  a  prompt 
visit  to  my  tailor,  and  the  results  of  this  visit  went  far  to 
stock  the  new  leather  trunk  that  I  recklessly  purchased  for 
the  shocking  price  such  commodities  command  in  America. 
At  the  end  of  a  successfully  costly  day  I  registered  myself, 
the  trunk,  with  its  brilliant  identification  label,  a  new  silver- 
topped  blackthorn,  and  the  best  bull  terrier  I  could  get  in 
New  York,  at  the  new  monster  hotel  I  had  never  before 
entered,  with  a  strange  feeling  of  an  identity  as  new  as  my 
overcoat.  This  terrier,  by  the  way,  marked  my  definite 
division  from  Roger  more  than  anything  else  could  have  done. 
I  have  always  been  fond  of  animals,  dogs  especially,  and  as  a 
little  fellow  was  never  without  some  ignominiously  bred  cur 
at  my  heels;  but  Roger  never  cared  for  them,  and  little  by 
little  I  had  dropped  the  attempt  to  keep  one,  since  he  ob- 
jected to  exercising  them  in  town,  did  not  care  to  bother  with 
them  in  the  country,  and  absolutely  refused  to  endure  the 
encumbrance  of  one  while  travelling.  Not  that  he  was  ever 
cruel  or  careless:  when  thrown  into  necessary  relations  with 
animals  he  was  far  more  just  and  thoughtful  of  them  than 
many  a  sentimental  animal  lover  of  my  acquaintance! 
Strangely  enough,  I  have  never  seen  a  dog  or  cat  that  would 
not  go  to  him  in  preference  to  almost  anyone  else — one  of 
nature's  ironies. 

With  Kitchener  (not  of  Khartoum,  then!)  curled  at  the 
foot  of  my  bed  in  a  brand  new  collar,  I  went  to  sleep,  woke 
early,  and  took  the  first  train  to  Stratford  to  say  good-bye  to 
my  mother  and  receive  her  congratulations  on  my  legacy. 

Everything  was  unchanged  in  the  neat  little  house:  only 
old  Jeanne  in  her  bed  in  a  wonderful  nightcap  marked  the 
visit  as  different  from  any  other.  Years  had  ceased  to  leave 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


any  mark  on  my  mother  since  her  hair  had  turned  grey,  and 
I  might  have  been  a  collegian  again  as  I  kissed  her. 

What  extraordinary  creatures  women  are!  She  knew 
inside  of  ten  minutes,  I  am  sure,  as  well  as  Sarah  Bradley  had 
known,  how  matters  stood  with  me,  and  whenever  I  spoke 
of  Margarita  an  inscrutable  look  was  in  her  eye  and  she 
stroked  my  arm  in  a  delicate,  mute  sympathy.  Nor  did  she 
refer  to  my  children  any  more  or  her  hopes  that  I  would 
ranger  myself  and  settle  down.  If  she  sighed  a  little  at  the 
news  of  my  projected  -wander  jahr,  she  did  not  beg  me  to  set 
any  term  for  it,  and  cheerfully  congratulated  herself  upon  my 
known  faithfulness  in  the  matter  of  correspondence.  The 
tact  of  the  woman! 

She  herself  cooked  our  simple  dinner  to  Jeanne's  voluble 
accompaniment  of  regret:  the  chicken  from  her  own  brood, 
the  salad  from  her  garden,  the  delicious  pastry  that  her  own 
hands  had  put  into  the  oven.  After  dinner,  during  which 
we  drank  Jeanne's  health  and  took  her  a  glass  of  the  wine  I 
always  brought  with  me  for  the  stocking  of  her  unpreten- 
tious cellar  (the  neighbours  had  never  been  able  to  regard 
this  addition  to  my  mother's  table  without  suspicion  and 
regret)  my  father's  favourite  brand  of  cigars  was  produced 
and  I  dutifully  smoked  one.  I  had  not  inherited  his  taste 
in  this  instance,  but  for  years  I  had  respectfully  made  this 
filial  sacrifice  and  my  mother  would  have  been  seriously  hurt 
had  I  foregone  it. 

We  talked  of  anything  but  what  was  in  our  minds:  the 
wonderful  late  planting  of  peas;  the  beauties  of  Kitchener, 
who  was  formally  introduced  to  Jeanne  and  listened  with 
perfect  good  breeding  to  a  long  account  (in  French)  of  the 
departed  family  poodle;  the  kindness  of  the  old  parish 
priest  to  Jeanne;  the  war-scare  in  the  East  (my  mother 
religiously  took  in  the  London  Times  and  watched  Russia 
with  unceasing  vigilance)  the  shocking  price  of  meat.  Later 
she  brought  out  my  old  violin  and  I  played  all  her  favourites 
while  she  accompanied  me  on  the  little  cottage  piano  my 

[136] 


FATE  PLAYS  ME  IN  THE  SHALLOWS 

father  had  bought  for  her  when  they  began  life  together. 
If  a  tear  dropped  now  and  then  on  the  yellow  keys,  neither 
of  us  took  it  too  seriously,  and  it  was  a  pleasant,  soothing 
evening  on  the  whole.  My  nerves  relaxed  unconsciously, 
and  Jeanne's  wild  applause  as  one  after  another  of  her  par- 
ticular tunes  rang  out  (Parlons-nous  de  lui,  Grandmtre, 
Sous  les  Tilleuls  and  Je  sais  bien,  mon  amour]  gave  me  an 
absurd  thrill  of  musicianly  vanity. 

I  slept  in  my  own  little  room  with  the  prim  black  walnut 
bedroom  suit,  the  prize-books  in  a  row  on  the  corner  shelf, 
the  worn  rug  made  from  the  minister's  calf  that  I  shot  by 
mistake,  and  my  father's  sword,  with  its  faded  tassel,  over 
my  bed.  By  some  odd  chance  all  my  dreams  that  night  were 
of  those  boyish  days,  and  it  was  with  sincere  surprise  that 
I  stared  on  waking  at  my  long  moustache,  in  the  toilet  mirror 
— we  were  not  so  universally  clean  shaven  twenty  years  ago. 

My  steamer  sailed  at  noon  from  Boston,  and  to  my 
intense  delight  there  was  no  one  on  board  that  I  knew.  Un- 
attended and  unwept  Kitchener  and  I  marched  up  the  gang 
plank,  and  I  pointed  out  to  him  the  conveniences  and  ec- 
centricities of  his  surroundings  with  the  contented  confidence 
known  only  to  the  intimate  friend  of  a  good  dog.  For 
Kitchener  and  I  were  already  intimate:  the  cynical  philos- 
ophy, the  sentimental  maundering,  the  firm  resolutions  I 
had  poured  out  in  his  well-clipped  ear  had  brought  us  very 
close  together,  and  had  he  chosen  to  betray  my  confidences 
he  could  have  made  a  great  fool  of  me,  I  can  tell  you. 

I  can  see  him  now — good  old  Kitch!  With  a  great  black 
patch  over  one  roving  blue  eye  and  an  inky  paw,  a  trim, 
taut  body  and  a  masterful  tail,  he  travelled  more  miles  than 
fall  to  the  lot  of  most  bull  dogs  and  got  quite  as  much  good 
out  of  them  as  most  of  his  fellow  travellers.  He  would  have 
chased  an  elephant  if  I  had  told  him  to  and  carried  bones  to 
a  cat  if  I  had  ordered  it  done.  He  is  buried  next  to  Mr. 
Boffin  the  poodle,  in  quiet  Stratford,  and  for  many  years 
his  grave  was  tended — for  Harriet  never  forgot. 

[137] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


Though  I  had  made  no  formal  decision  as  to  where  I 
would  go,  somewhere  in  the  back  of  my  brain  it  had  been 
made  for  me.  That  astonishing  young  Anglo-Indian  had 
not  at  that  time  reminded  us  that  "when  you  'ear  the  East 
a  callin',  why,  you  don't  'eed  nothing  else"  (I  quote  from 
memory  and  far  from  libraries)  but  it  was  true,  for  all  that, 
and  I  knew  the  skies  that  waited  for  me — the  low,  kindling 
stars,  the  warm,  intimate  wind,  the  very  feel  of  the  earth 
under  my  feet. 

And  yet  I  did  not  go  there,  after  all.  We  were  bound  for 
England,  and  as  I  travelled  up  the  Devon  country  and  drank 
in  the  pure,  homelike  landscape  and  strolled  by  those  in- 
comparable (if  occasionally  malarial)  cottages,  my  father's 
and  grandfather's  blood  stirred  in  me,  and  half  consciously, 
to  tell  the  truth,  I  found  myself  on  the  way  to  Oxford.  By 
some  miracle  of  chance  my  old  lodgings  were  free,  and  before 
I  quite  realised  what  I  was  doing,  I  was  making  myself  com- 
fortable in  them. 

I  should  have  hated  to  be  obliged  to  explain  to  my  incredu- 
lous American  friends  what  I  "did"  in  those  long  months, 
when  every  week  I  planned  to  be  off  for  the  South  and  every 
week  found  me  still  lingering  by  the  emerald  close,  the  grey 
tower,  the  quiet,  formal  place  of  this  backwater  of  the  world. 
In  their  sense,  of  course,  I  "  did"  nothing  at  all.  I  watched 
the  youth  around  me  (any  one  of  them  I  might  have  been, 
had  my  father  lived)  I  renewed  the  quiet,  cordial  friend- 
ships, which,  if  they  never  rooted  very  deep,  never,  on  the 
other  hand,  desiccated  and  blew  away;  I  wrote  many  letters, 
and  more  than  this,  I  formulated  once  for  all,  though  I  did 
not  know  it  then,  such  theory  of  life  as  I  have  found  necessary 
ever  since.  What  it  may  have  been  does  not  so  much 
matter:  if  I  have  failed  to  illustrate  it  in  my  life,  if  I  have, 
even,  failed  to  make  it  reasonably  clear  in  this  rough  sketch 
of  the  most  vital  interests  of  my  life,  it  cannot  have  been 
very  valuable. 

Among  my  correspondents  at  this  time  neither  Roger  nor 


FATE  PLAYS  ME  IN  THE  SHALLOWS 

his  wife  was  numbered.  This  was  not  strange,  for  he  was  a 
poor  letter-writer,  except  for  business  purposes  or  in  a  real 
necessity,  and  she  had  never  been  taught  so  much  as  to 
write  her  own  name!  But  I  heard  from  them  indirectly,  and 
as  Roger,  it  turned  out,  supposed  me  to  have  gone  on  a  long 
hunting  trip  through  the  Rockies,  neither  of  us  was  alarmed 
by  the  three  months'  silence. 

A  strange,  dozing  peace  had  settled  over  me;  though  I 
thought  of  them  often,  it  was  as  one  thinks  of  persons  and 
scenes  infinitely  removed,  with  which  he  has  no  logical  con- 
nection, only  a  veiled,  softened  interest.  Margarita  seemed, 
against  the  background  of  the  moist,  pearly  English  autumn, 
like  some  gorgeous  and  unbelievable  tropical  bird,  shooting, 
all  orange  and  indigo,  across  a  grey  cloud.  It  was  impossible 
that  I,  a  quiet  chess-player  sitting  opposite  his  friend,  the 
impractical  student  of  Eastern  Religions,  could  have  to  do 
with  such  a  vivid  anomaly  as  she  must  always  be.  It  was 
unlikely  that  the  silent,  moody  man  strolling  for  hours 
through  mist-filled  English  lanes,  pipe  in  mouth,  dog  at  heels 
should  ever  run  athwart  that  lovely  troubler  of  man's  mind, 
that  babyish  woman,  that  all-too-well-ripened  child. 

My  Christmas  holidays  were  quietly  passed  with  the 
Oriental  Professor  in  his  tiny  Surrey  cottage,  where  he  and 
his  dear  old  sister,  a  quaint  little  vignette  of  a  woman, 
forgot  the  world  among  her  pansy  beds.  She  was  not  visible 
at  that  time,  however,  owing  to  a  teasing  influenza  which 
kept  her  in  bed,  and  our  hostess  was  her  trained  nurse,  a 
quiet,  capable  little  American,  with  a  firm  hand-grip  and 
kind  brown  eyes,  already  set  in  fine,  watchful  wrinkles. 
She  rarely  spoke,  except  in  the  obvious  commonplaces  of 
courtesy,  and  our  days  were  wonderfully  still.  The  Professor 
taught  me  Persian,  in  a  desultory  way,  and  chess  most 
rigorously,  for  he  was  hard  put  to  it  for  an  opponent  even 
partly  worthy  of  his  prodigious  skill.  He  was  a  member  of 
all  the  most  select  societies  of  learning  in  the  world,  an 
Egyptologist  of  such  standing  that  his  pronouncements 

[139] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


in  that  field  were  practically  final,  a  man  called  before  kings 
to  determine  the  worth  of  their  national  treasures  and 
curiosities — and  his  greatest  pride  was  that  he  had  beaten 
the  hitherto  unmatched  mechanical  chess-player  in  public 
contest  and  had  been  invited  to  settle  absolutely  the  nicest 
problems  in  a  chess  magazine! 

I  dwell  with  a  curious  fondness  upon  this  placid  interval 
in  my  life.  I  supposed  myself  honestly  settled,  grown  old, 
grateful  for  the  rest  and  oblivion  my  father's  old  university 
gave  me  so  generously.  When  I  thought  of  the  feverish, 
break-neck  journey  I  had  planned,  of  the  hot  and  doubtful 
reliefs  and  distractions  I  had  promised  myself  that  day  when 
the  lawyers'  letter  had  dropped  half  read  on  my  knees  and  I 
had  sniffed  my  freedom  first,  I  wondered.  But,  truly,  it  is 
all  written,  and  the  hour  had  not  yet  struck,  that  was  all! 


[140] 


CHAPTER  XVI 
MARGARITA  COMES  TO  TOWN 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE, 

Oct.  16,  188— 
JERRY  DEAR: 

First  about  the  will — how  splendid  it  was!  Nothing 
could  have  pleased  Roger  more,  I  am  sure — he  told  me 
with  that  queer,  little  whimsical  grimace  of  his  that  it 
cleared  his  conscience  to  feel  he  was  leaving  you  something! 
What  a  personality  he  has,  and  how,  in  his  quiet  unassuming 
way,  he  impresses  it  on  us! 

I  hear  that  Sarah  made  a  great  fuss  about  the  will,  but 
was  advised  by  Mr.  Sears  to  stop — and  stopped!  With 
Madame  B.  I  am  of  course  anathema — I  have  not  heard 
from  her  since.  The  bank,  bien  entendu,  is  of  the  past, 
and  you,  I  hear,  are  in  the  far  West.  How  you  will  revel 
in  the  freedom  and  how  good  it  must  have  been  to  kick 
off  the  ball  and  chain!  If  anyone  can  be  trusted  not  to 
abuse  leisure,  it  is  you,  dear  Jerry — you  won't  appear  so 
culpable,  as  a  poor  American  always  does,  somehow,  under 
such  circumstances.  Even  I  feel  unjustifiably  idle  now, 
so  I  have  taken  up  some  of  Mr.  Elder's  fads — what  a  fine, 
manly  sort  of  fellow  he  is ! — and  may  be  seen,  moi  qui  vous 
parle,  teaching  sight-reading  to  a  boy's  glee-club! 

But  of  course  you  are  impatiently  waiting  for  me  to  turn 
to  Margarita  and  leave  this  silly  chatter  about  my  egotistic 
self.  Eh  bien,  she  is  marvellous.  For  half  an  hour  I  hated 
her,  but  I  couldn't  hold  out  any  longer.  I  have  never  even 
imagined  such  a  person.  What  a  pose  that  would  be  if 
any  actress  were  clever  enough  to  avail  herself  of  the  un- 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


paralleled  opportunities  it  would  give  her!  Of  course  I 
thought  it  was  a  pose,  at  first — I  simply  couldn't  believe  in 
her.  But  equally  of  course  no  woman  could  deceive  another 
woman  very  long  at  that,  and  she  is  one  to  conquer  both 
sexes.  When  she  put  her  hand  in  mine  and  asked  if  I 
was  going  to  buy  her  some  dresses  on  Broadway,  I  had  to 
kiss  her. 

I  got  very  little,  just  enough  for  absolute  necessity,  and 
gave  her  a  letter  to  my  woman  in  Paris  and  another  to  one 
I  could  only  afford  occasionally,  and  told  her  to  obey  them 
and  take  what  they  gave  her.  She  understood  and  prom- 
ised not  to  buy  what  happened  to  strike  her — this  was  nec- 
essary, for  she  begged  piteously  for  a  rose  pink  satin  street 
dress  and  a  yellow  velvet  opera  cloak  to  wear  on  the  boat! 
We  had  a  terrible  struggle  over  a  corset — she  screamed 
when  the  corsetitre  and  I  got  her  into  one  and  slapped  the 
poor  woman  in  the  face.  It  took  all  my  diplomacy  to  cover 
the  affair  and  I  doubt  if  I  could  have  done  it,  really,  if  Mar- 
garita herself  had  not  suddenly  begun  to  cry  like  a  frightened 
baby  and  begged  pardon  so  sincerely  that  the  woman  was 
melted  and  ended  by  offering  her  sister  as  a  maid!  The 
girl  had  the  best  of  references,  and  as  she  must  have  some- 
one and  Elise  has  travelled  extensively  and  seems  very 
tactful,  she  is  now  (I  trust)  adjusting  the  elastic  girdle 
her  sister  finally  induced  Margarita  to  wear. 

I  took  her  to  my  Sixth  Avenue  shoe  place,  and  she  was 
so  ravished  with  a  pair  of  pale  blue  satin  mules  I  got  her 
that  she  actually  leaned  down  and  kissed  the  clerk  who  was 
kneeling  before  her!  Fortunately  we  were  in  a  private 
room  and  he  was  the  cleverest  possible  young  Irishman, 
who  winked  gravely  at  me  and  took  it  as  naturally  as  possi- 
ble— he  thought  she  was  not  responsible,  you  see,  and 
assured  me  that  he  had  an  aunt  in  the  old  country  who  was 
just  that  way ! 

What  a  beautiful  voice  she  has — have  you  ever  heard  it 
drop  a  perfect  minor  third?  But  what  a  strange,  strange 
wife  for  Roger,  of  all  men!  I  suppose  she  is  the  first  thor- 
oughly unconventional  person  he  was  ever  closely  connected 
with — in  one  way  you  would  seem  more  natural  with  her 
— I  suppose  because  you  are  more  adaptable  than  Roger. 


MARGARITA   COMES   TO   TOWN 

With  him,  everybody  must  adapt.  Will  she !  Votta  Vaftairet 
I  should  say  that  the  young  woman  would  be  likely  to 
have  great  influence  over  other  people's  lives,  herself.  If 
she  and  Roger  ever  clash — !  Ah,  well,  advienne  que  pourra, 
it's  done. 

I  gave  her  for  a  wedding  present  that  lovely  little  old 
daguerreotype  of  Roger  at  three  years  old.  It  was  in  an 
old  leather  frame,  you  know,  and  I  had  it  taken  out  and 
put  into  a  little  band  of  steel  pearls  and  hung  on  a  small 
dark  red  velvet  standard.  No  one  could  fail  to  know  him 
from  it — I  think  it  is  the  most  wonderful  child  portrait 
I  ever  saw.  He  seems  to  have  always  had  that  straight, 
steady  look.  There  is  a  tiny  curl  of  yellow  baby  hair  in  the 
back,  which  amused  her  very  much.  That  is  the  only  one  of 
him  at  that  age,  you  know — his  mother  gave  it  to  me  when 
we  were  engaged,  and  I  always  kept  it. 

I  am  forgetting  to  tell  you  about  our  visit  to  the  Convent, 
and  you  must  hear  it.  I  love  the  old  place  and  often  go 
up  there  to  see  Mary,  when  things  grow  a  little  too  un- 
bearable. She  is  wonderful — so  placid  and  bright,  so 
somehow  just  like  herself,  when  you  expect  something  differ- 
ent! Why  did  she  do  it,  I  wonder?  I  was  one  of  her  best 
friends,  and  I  never  knew.  Her  great  executive  ability  is 
having  its  reward,  they  tell  me,  and  she  is  likely  to  be 
Mother  Superior  some  day. 

I  had  told  her  about  Margarita  and  she  was  deeply  in- 
terested in  her,  though  the  terrible  state  of  the  child's  soul 
naturally  alarmed  her.  When  I  told  her  that  her  sister- 
in-law  had  never  been  in  a  church,  nor  seen  one,  unless  she 
had  noticed  those  we  passed  in  New  York,  she  crossed  her- 
self hastily  and  such  a  look  of  real,  heartfelt  pain  passed 
over  her  face! 

Well,  I  got  my  charge  safely  up  there,  and  everything 
interested  her  tremendously  from  the  very  beginning.  It 
was  the  intermission  demi-heure  of  the  morning  and  the  girls 
were  all  munching  their  gouter  and  playing  about  on  the 
grass.  I  explained  to  her  why  they  all  wore  the  same  black 
uniform,  and  why  the  honour  girls,  "les  tres-biens"  wore 
the  broad  blue  sashes  under  their  arms,  and  why  the  Sis- 
ters kept  on  their  white  headdresses  in  the  house,  and  why 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


the  girls  all  made  their  little  reverence  when  Mother  Bradley 
came  out  to  meet  us.  She  kissed  Margarita  so  sweetly  and 
held  her  in  her  arms  a  moment — I  don't  think  Roger  quite 
realised  how  his  attitude  hurts  her:  it  is  the  only  almost  un- 
just thing  I  ever  knew  him  to  do.  In  the  halls  there  is  a 
great  statue  of  Christ  blessing  the  children,  and  Margarita 
stopped  and  stared  at  it  several  minutes,  while  we  watched 
her.  She  seemed  so  rapt  that  Mary  took  my  hand  excitedly 
and  whispered  to  me  not  to  disturb  her  for  the  world,  but 
wait  for  what  she  would  say.  After  a  while  she  turned  to  me. 

"Why  has  that  woman  a  beard,  Sue?"  she  asked  cheer- 
fully. Imagine  my  feelings!  I  did  not  dare  look  at  Mary. 

We  went  all  through  the  school-rooms  and  she  was  most 
curious  about  the  globes  and  blackboards  and  pianos.  We 
stopped  at  the  door  of  a  tiny  music  room,  and  I  smiled,  as 
I  always  do,  at  the  pretty  little  picture.  The  young  girl 
with  her  Gretchen  braids  of  yellow  hair,  straight-backed 
in  front  of  the  piano,  the  nervous,  grey-haired  little  music 
master  watchfully  posted  behind  her,  beating  time,  and 
in  the  corner  the  calm-faced  Sister,  pink-cheeked  under  her 
spreading  cap,  knitting,  with  constantly  moving  lips.  The 
music  rooms  are  so  wee  that  the  group  seemed  like  a  grace- 
fully posed  genre  picture.  Before  we  knew  what  she  was 
about,  Margarita  had  slipped  in  behind  the  music  master 
and  brought  both  hands  down  with  a  crash  on  the  keys, 
so  that  the  Chopin  Prelude  ended  abruptly  in  an  hysterical 
wail  and  the  young  lady  half  fell  off  the  stool — only  half, 
for  Margarita  pushed  her  the  rest  of  the  way,  I  regret  to 
say.  Fortunately  Mary  was  able  to  get  us  out  of  it,  but  I 
fear  there  was  no  more  Prelude  that  day!  Why  will  women 
play  Chopin,  by  the  way  ?  I  never  heard  one  who  could — 
Aus  der  Ohe  is  masculine  enough,  heaven  knows,  but  even 
that  amount  of  talent  doesn't  seem  to  accomplish  it.  Do 
you  remember  Frederick's  diatribes  on  the  subject?  He 
used  to  say  that  Congress  should  forbid  Chopin  to  women, 
on  pain  of  life  imprisonment. 

But  you  must  hear  the  end  of  the  visit.  We  went  into 
Mary's  room — perfectly  bare,  you  know,  with  a  great  cruci- 
fix on  the  wall  and  below  it,  part  of  the  woodwork,  a  little 
cup  for  holy  water.  As  soon  as  she  entered  the  room 


MARGARITA    STOPPED    AND    STARED    AT    IT    SEVERAL    MINUTES 


MARGARITA    COMES   TO    TOWN 


Margarita  paused,  and  gave  a  sort  of  gasp — her  hand,  which 
I  held  tight  in  mine,  grew  cold  as  ice.  She  moved  over 
slowly  to  the  crucifix,  with  her  eyes  glued  to  it — she  seemed 
utterly  unconscious  of  us,  or  where  she  was;  she  stood  di- 
rectly under  the  crucifix,  with  Mary  and  me  on  either  side 
of  her  shaking  with  excitement,  and  then  she  put  out  her 
hand  in  a  wavering,  unsteady  way,  like  a  blind  person, 
dipped  her  fingers  in  the  empty  bowl  and  began  to  cross  her- 
self! She  touched  her  forehead  quickly,  then  moved  her 
hand  slowly  down  her  chest,  fumbled  toward  one  side,  then 
drew  a  long  breath  and  stared  at  us,  winking  like  a  baby. 

"I  wish  I  had  some  food,  Sue,"  she  said,  and  actually 
yawned  and  stretched  her  arms,  like  a  plow-boy,  in  our 
faces.  "I  think  this  room  makes  me  hungry.  Are  you 
not  hungry,  Mary?" 

Now,  Jerry,  what  do  you  make  of  that  ?  She  cannot  have 
seen  a  crucifix,  can  she  ?  Nor  anyone  crossing  themselves  ? 
She  acted  like  a  woman  walking  in  her  sleep.  If  I  lived 
in  Boston  and  were  interested  in  that  sort  of  thing  I  could 
swear  that  she  had  been  a  nun  in  her  last  incarnation! 

Mary  is,  of  course,  much  wrought  up,  and  is  going  to  set 
the  whole  convent  praying  for  her,  I  believe.  I  told  Roger 
about  it,  but  you  know  what  he  is — it  sounded  rather  sUly 
as  soon  as  I  had  it  begun.  He  pointed  out  that  there  were 
plenty  of  chances  for  her  to  have  seen  the  Sisters  crossing 
themselves  before  crucifixes,  and  other  sensible  explana- 
tions. But  really  and  truly,  Jerry,  I  was  with  her  every 
minute,  and  she  did  what  she  had  not  seen  done. 

What  do  you  think  of  it  ? 

Yours  always, 

SUE  PAYNTER. 


PART  FIVE 

IN  WHICH  THE  BROOK  BECOMES  A  RIVER  AND 
FLOWS  BY  GREAT  CITIES 


Now  sit  thee  down,  my  bride,  and  spin, 

And  fold  thy  hair  more  wifely  yet, 
The  church  hath  purged  our  love  from  sin, 
Now  art  thou  joined  to  homely  kin, 

The  salten  sea  thou  must  forget. 

Sir  Hugh  and  the  Mermaiden. 


[  '471 


CHAPTER  XVII 
OUR  PEARL  BATHES  IN  SEINE  WATER 

BLEEKS,  LITTLE  ARCHES,  SURREY, 

January  2d,  188 — 
MY  DEAR  MR.  JERROLDS: 

You  will  be  surprised,  doubtless,  to  hear  from  an  old 
woman  who  is  perfectly  unknown  to  you  in  all  probability, 
but  if  your  mother  is  still  living  she  will  remember  Agatha 
Upgrove  and  the  cups  of  tea  and  dishes  of  innocent  scandal 
she  shared  with  her,  when  you  were  rolling  in  a  perambulator. 
I  write  to  you  instead  of  to  her  in  order  to  find  out  if  she  is 
living,  in  fact,  and  to  renew  at  sixty-two  the  friendship  of 
twenty-six!  You  may  well  wonder  at  such  a  sudden  impulse 
after  thirty  years,  almost,  of  silence,  and  if  you  will  pardon 
a  garrulous  old  woman's  epistolary  ramblings,  I  will  tell  you, 
for  you  are  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

My  grandniece  was  summoned  hastily  to  Paris  a  month 
ago,  to  act  as  bridesmaid  to  a  young  school  friend,  and  as  no 
one  else  could  well  be  spared  at  that  time  to  go  with  the  child, 
I  offered  myself.  I  am  an  experienced  traveller  and  even 
at  my  age  think  far  less  of  a  trip  across  the  Channel  than 
most  of  my  relatives  do  of  one  to  India,  with  which,  by  the 
way,  I  am  also  familiar.  It  was  when  my  husband's  (and 
your  father's)  regiment  was  ordered  to  India  that  your 
mother  and  I  met.  You  came  very  near  being  born  there,  did 
you  know  it  ?  But  the  regiment  was  recalled,  and  we  came 
back  delighted,  for  neither  of  us  liked  it.  Major  Upgrove 
died  of  dysentery  a  year  later,  and  my  widowhood  and 
your  father's  absence  in  Africa  at  that  time  drew  your  mother 
and  me  very  close  together.  One  wonders  that  swh  inti- 
macies should  ever  fade,  but  I  have  seen  it  too  often  to  regard 
it  as  anything  but  natural,  alas!  It  was  my  son,  Captain 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


Arthur  Upgrove  of  the  — th  Hussars,  who  taught  you  to  walk 
— I  can  see  you  now,  with  the  lappets  of  your  worked  muslin 
cap  flying  in  the  wind,  and  such  a  serious  expression! 

But  to  return  to  my  trip  to  Paris.  I  established  my  niece 
comfortably  with  her  friends,  and  then  betook  myself  to  my 
own  devices  till  such  time  as  she  should  need  me  again.  I 
had  not  been  in  Paris  for  eight  years  (one  settles  down  so 
amazingly  hi  provincial  England!)  and  I  derived  great 
pleasure  from  the  old  scenes  of  my  honeymoon,  that  sad 
pleasure  which  is  all  that  is  left  to  women  of  my  age,  who 
have  not  their  grandchildren  to  renew  their  youth  in ! 

The  Major  and  I  had  always  been  particularly  attached 
to  the  Gardens  of  the  Luxembourg,  and  there  I  went  and  sat 
musing  many  hours  on  end.  One  morning  as  I  sat  watching 
the  children  and  their  bonnes,  my  ear  was  caught  by  a  shrill 
scream  and  I  turned  and  saw  a  very  handsome  young  woman, 
beautifully  dressed,  dragging  a  cup  and  ball  away  from  an 
angry  little  French  boy.  I  supposed,  of  course,  that  she  was 
his  mother  or  his  aunt,  and  only  regretted  that  she  should  be 
so  rough  and  undignified  in  her  manner  to  him,  but  when  his 
nurse  rushed  up  and  angrily  questioned  the  young  woman, 
who  fought  her  off,  still  clinging  to  the  toy,  I  realised  that 
something  was  wrong,  and  went  over  to  them.  Hardly  had  I 
got  there  when  a  neat-looking  lady's  maid  ran  up,  chid  the 
young  woman  severely,  and  apologised  in  a  rapid  flood  of 
French,  that  I  could  not  follow,  to  the  nurse.  Then  it  was 
clear  (or  so  I  thought)  that  the  poor  creature  was  not  respon- 
sible and  I  tried  to  soothe  her,  in  a  quiet  way,  till  her  atten- 
dant should  leave  the  bonne. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  imagine  my  surprise  when  I 
found  that  she  was  not  insane  at  all,  only  strangely  unde- 
veloped. Her  maid  explained  this  to  me  while  the  curious 
young  thing  (a  bride,  too!)  actually  made  friends  with  the 
child  and  begged  the  cup  and  ball  away  successfully! 

She  took  quite  a  fancy  to  me  and  we  talked  together  in 
English,  as  soon  as  I  found  out  that  she  was  an  American. 
What  an  extraordinary  nation!  It  quite  makes  one  giddy 
to  think  of  them.  Fancy  a  child  that  had  never  been  taught 
of  the  God  who  made  her  nor  the  Saviour  who  died  for  her, 
in  a  civilised  Christian  country!  And  yet  she  was  naturally 


OUR  PEARL  BATHES  IN  SEINE  WATER 

very  sweet,  I  found,  though  high- tempered.  She  spoke  beau- 
tiful French  (they  tell  me  Americans  often  do)  but  she 
seemed  to  know  very  little  about  her  native  country  and  had 
never  seen  a  red  Indian  nor  a  buffalo.  The  Major  always 
regretted  so  deeply  that  he  had  never  hunted  in  North 
America. 

During  our  conversation,  which  I  should  hardly  dare  to 
repeat,  it  was  so  very  odd,  she  told  me  that  she  was  very  glad 
to  have  found  another  friend,  for  now  she  had  three,  besides 
her  husband. 

"And  who  are  the  other  two,  my  dear?"  I  asked  her. 

"One  is  Sue,  that  is  a  woman,"  she  answered,  "and  the 
other  is  Jerry,  that  is  a  man." 

"Jerry?  Jerry?"  I  repeated,  for  it  sounded  strangely 
familiar. 

"  Yes.    Do  you  know  him,  too  ?  "  she  asked  eagerly. 

"I  am  afraid  not,"  I  said,  "but  it  so  happens  that  I  once 
knew  a  baby  boy  whom  his  mother  called  Jerry  many  years 
ago,  in  England." 

"My  Jerry  gave  me  this  pearl,"  she  said,  and  she  showed 
me  a  beautiful  pearl  which  she  wore. 

"I  do  not  think  it  likely  that  the  Jerry  I  knew  would  be 
able  to  afford  such  presents,"  I  said  rather  stiffly.  You  must 
know,  Mr.  Jerrolds,  that  we  are  still  old-fashioned  in  our 
ideas  in  England,  and  fail  to  realise  the  quick  growth  of 
your  amazing  American  fortunes! 

She  persisted,  however,  and  to  quiet  her  I  told  her  that 
"my  Jerry's"  right  name  was  Winfred  Jerrolds.  When  she 
assured  me  that  it  was  "her  Jerry"  and  described  your  ap- 
pearance (exactly  your  father's,  except  that  he  required  a 
pince-nez),  I  began  to  believe  in  the  strange  coincidence,  and 
readily  agreed  to  go  home  with  her.  She  lived  in  a  charm- 
ing appartement  (I  have  forgotten  the  street,  but  they  were  au 
cinquieme,  and  there  was  a  queer  little  hydraulic  lift,  which 
I  refused  to  use,  preferring  my  own  feet)  and  she  did  the 
honours  of  it  very  prettily,  upon  the  whole,  like  a  child  that 
is  just  learning,  looking  to  her  maid  constantly  for  approval. 

This,  frankly,  did  not  seem  right  to  me,  Mr.  Jerrolds.  I 
may  be  old-fashioned,  but  I  cannot  think  that  a  woman  should 
learn  etiquette  from  her  maid,  and  I  must  have  showed  my 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


feeling  in  my  face,  for  the  girl,  a  capable  one,  I  must  say, 
blushed  and  said  that  in  her  opinion  Madame  required  a 
governess,  a  chaperon,  as  it  were,  and  that  she  believed  Mon- 
sieur had  it  in  his  mind  also.  I  could  not  help  exclaiming 
that  I  knew  of  the  very  person,  and  most  officiously,  I  know, 
I  wrote  down  the  address  of  a  second  cousin  of  mine,  once 
removed,  then  in  Paris  by  the  merest  chance. 

She  is-ja  Miss  Jencks,  Mr.  Jerrolds,  and  of  unexception- 
able family:  her  great-uncle  a  bishop,  her  father  a  retired 
army  officer.  She  has  been  governess  to  the  family  of  the 
Governor-General  of  Canada,  thus,  as  you  see,  enabling  her 
to  know  just  what  would  be  required  in  American  society 
(the  maid  told  me  that  Mr.  Bradley  was  most  aristocratic 
and  quite  wealthy)  and  has  always  associated  with  the  best 
people.  She  is  plain,  but  refined,  and  unusually  well  edu- 
cated, being  in  Paris  now  for  special  art  study.  She  would 
be  moderate  in  her  charges,  I  am  sure,  and  would  take  a 
real  interest  in  young  Mrs.  Bradley,  for  she  deeply  enjoys 
forming  character  and  manners  and  has  always  been  con- 
sidered most  success]id  at  it. 

I  wrote  down  the  address  of  her  pension  and  left  it  with 
the  maid,  telling  her,  so  that  Mr.  Bradley  would  not  think 
me  too  forward,  that  I  was  an  old  friend  of  your  mother. 
Do,  if  you  write  to  him,  say  a  good  word  for  Miss  Jencks, 
for  I  am  sure  he  will  never  regret  engaging  her. 

Before  I  left,  Mrs.  Bradley  sang  for  me,  accompanying 
herself  on  the  piano.  Her  voice  is  unusually  fine,  though 
she  does  not  sing  at  all  in  the  English  way,  but  more  like  a 
professional  opera  singer.  It  was  rather  startling  to  me. 
Barbara  Jencks  could  teach  her  a  little  more  restraint,  I 
think,  to  great  advantage.  But  there  is  no  doubt  of  the 
beauty  of  the  organ.  She  is  taking  lessons  of  a  famous  teacher, 
and  the  maid  says  she  had  made  the  most  wonderful  progress 
in  a  short  time.  She  is  a  very  loving  little  creature  (I  call 
her  little,  though  she  is  half  a  head  taller  than  I!)  but  though 
she  is  so  childish,  I  fancy  she  has  a  -very  strong  will  and  a 
character  of  her  own.  She  would  have  a  great  influence  over 
anyone  that  was  much  with  her,  I  think. 

I  am  sending  this  letter  in  care  of  your  mother's  old  bank- 
ers. I  hope  so  much  that  I  may  hear  that  she  is  alive  and 


OUR  PEARL  BATHES  IN  SEINE  WATER 

well!  I  was  never  better  myself.  I  enclose  with  this  long 
letter  a  picture  of  my  son.  Like  your  mother,  I  have  but 
one,  and  he  is  everything  to  me,  as  I  daresay  hers  is. 

I  trust  that  you  will  not  come  to  England  without 
letting  me  see  you  at  Bleeks,  and  remain,  my  dear  Mr. 
Jerrolds,  Your  mother's  old  friend, 

AGATHA  UPGROVE. 

[FROM  ROGER'S  DIARY] 

PARIS,  Feb.  17,  '8- 

Weather  fine  and  clear  for  a  week.  M.  well  and  very 
happy.  Her  voice  certainly  comes  on  surprisingly.  Mme. 

M i  very  enthusiastic.   Miss  J.  has  persuaded  her  to  learn 

to  write.    She  makes  great  progress. 

Feb.  24. 

To-night  we  actually  gave  a  little  dinner.  Friends  of  Miss 
J.'s:  a  sort  of  practice  affair.  M.  behaved  very  well,  but 
drank  her  neighbour's  (Miss  J.'s  cousin's)  wine  and  would 
not  apologise.  Miss  J.  a  little  inclined  to  be  over-severe,  I 
think.  It  will  be  very  pleasant  to  entertain,  later,  certainly. 
Spent  the  morning  at  the  Bibliotheque  Nalionale,  reading 
up  Code  Napoleon.  What  a  man!  I  never  thought 
enough  emphasis  laid  on  that  side  of  him. 

Mar.  3. 

Bad  weather  over  for  the  present.  Called  at  the  Legation. 
M.  very  quiet  and  good  and  looking  exquisite  in  dark  blue 
silk  from  Sue's  crack  dressmaker.  Enormously  admired  and 
very  happy.  Quite  well.  Took  a  few  notes  to-day  on  the 
Code.  A  great  lawyer,  that  man. 

Mar.  6. 

Wonderful  weather,  fine  and  warm.  Chestnuts  soon  start- 
ing. Went  to  Versailles  for  the  day.  M.  played  cup  and 

ball  with  R n,  the  sculptor,  who  wants  to  model  her. 

He  gave  us  a  petit  souper  and  M.  behaved  perfectly.    Miss 

[153] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


J.  certainly  an  investment.  She  cannot  drag  M.  into  a 
cathedral,  however.  M.  insists  they  make  her  feel  queer 
and  then  hungry.  Says  her  hands  get  cold.  Have  told  Miss 
J.  cannot  have  any  meddling  with  religion  just  yet.  (N. 
B.  not  at  all!)  Strange  not  hearing  from  Jerry. 

Mar.  10. 

M.  spoke  of  old  home  to-day  for  first  time.  Remarked  on 
absence  of  ocean  and  hoped  dog  was  well.  Dog's  name  ap- 
pears to  be  Rosy,  which  is  absurd,  as  it's  not  that  kind  of 
dog.  Obstinate  as  usual.  Miss  J.  objects  to  kissing  as  a 
disciplinary  measure.  M.  balks  at  Kings  of  England  in 
order,  and  gets  no  dessert.  Odd  thing  to  have  happen  to 
your  wife!  She  grows  sweeter  every  day.  Am  getting  quite 
deep  into  notes  on  the  Code.  Really  enough  for  a  book. 

Mar.  15. 

Weather  still  holds.  Met  Stokes  and  Remsen  of  my  class 
to-day  and  went  out  to  St.  Cloud  with  them.  Say  I  look 
five  years  younger.  Didn't  realise  I  needed  the  rest,  to  tell 
the  truth.  Suppose  we  do  work  too  steadily,  over  there. 
But  I  never  felt  any  ill  effects  from  it.  Have  cabled  Jerry  at 
University  Club.  Remsen  swears  he  saw  him  in  London 
last  week.  Doesn't  seem  possible,  or  would  have  known. 

M.   sang  to-day  at    musicale  for  Mme.   M i.     Great 

success  and  looked  very  beautiful.  She  gets  a  high  colour 
singing.  Hate  Frenchmen  as  much  as  I  ever  did.  They're 
more  monkey  than  man.  Magnificent  new  tenor-barytone 
just  discovered — can't  recall  the  name.  Wants  to  sing  with 
M.,  who  was  much  taken  with  him.  Worked  up  a  few  of 
my  notes:  Stokes  thought  well  of  them. 

Mar.  16. 

Barytone  called  while  I  was  out  with  Miss  J.  yesterday 
on  business.  M.  told  me  that  he  loved  her  and  admits  that  he 
kissed  her.  Went  around  to  his  rooms  and  gave  him  a  good 
licking  this  afternoon:  warm  work,  for  he  is  a  big  fellow. 

[154] 


OUR  PEARL  BATHES  IN  SEINE  WATER 

M.  cannot  see  anything  out  of  the  way  in  what  she  did: 
told  me  she  wished  she'd  married  Jerry,  I  was  so  cruel. 
Miss  J.  talked  to  her  like  a  Dutch  uncle.  Can't  have  the 
child  treated  too  harshly  for  all  the  Governor- Generals 
Canada  ever  had,  and  told  her  so.  We  all  got  pretty  hot,  but 
nothing  would  budge  M.  till  Elise  happened  to  confide  in  her 
that  I  was  a  man  in  a  thousand.  This  for  some  reason 
struck  her  forcibly  and  she  acted  like  an  angel.  Women  are 
certainly  strange.  Nothing  more  done  on  the  Code. 

FLORENCE,  Mar.  26. 

Have  been  a  week  here.  M.  enjoys  it  very  much.  She 
and  Miss  J.  studying  Italian  day  and  night:  M.  takes  to  it 
like  a  duck  to  water.  Got  a  grammar  myself  and  began.  M. 
practises  faithfully.  Some  pleasant  old  ladies  I  knew  in  New 
Haven  called  on  us  to-day  and  M.'s  behaviour  could  not  have 
been  better,  I  thought,  though  Miss  J.  objects  to  her  crossing 
her  ankles.  She  writes  very  well  now.  It  is  better  than  a 
play  to  hear  her  and  Miss  J.  arguing  over  points  of  etiquette. 
J.  explained  the  theory  of  the  chaperon,  but  M.  pinned  her 
down  to  admitting  that  it  did  not  apply  to  married  women. 
Then  why  to  her  ?  M.  demanded  imperiously.  J.  shuffled 
a  little,  then  explained  that  M.  was  an  exceptional  married 
woman.  M.  inquired  if  that  meant  that  she  was  the  only 
married  woman  that  could  not  be  trusted  alone  with  a  man. 
J.  replied  "Unfortunately,  no,  Mrs.  Bradley!"  M.  scored, 
in  my  opinion. 

April  2. 

Long  cable  to-day  about  Wilkes  case.  Cannot  possibly 
attend  to  it  from  here.  Cabled  to  make  every  effort  to  post- 
pone it.  Bound  to  get  in  a  mess,  if  they  don't.  R 

should  have  been  disbarred  long  ago.  M.  spoke  again  of 
the  beach  at  home  to-day.  The  second  time  since  we  were 
married.  Sometimes  I  think  she  has  no  heart,  in  the  ordi- 
nary sense,  and  then  again  her  sweetness  and  kindness  would 

[i55] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


win  over  a  statue.  She  cannot,  of  course,  be  judged  by 
ordinary  standards. 

April  6. 

Heard  from  Jerry  to-day.  Has  been  in  England  all  the 
time,  the  rascal,  playing  chess  and  learning  Persian!  Has 
promised  to  run  over  to  Paris  and  we  are  going  back  there. 
M.  wants  to  go  on  with  her  music  lessons.  Have  never 
known  her  so  steady  at  anything.  Expected  to  stay  here  in- 
definitely, but  must  be  very  patient  with  her  now.  Is 
wonderfully  well.  Wouldn't  mind  getting  back  to  work, 
myself,  but  she  can't  very  well  sail  now,  I  suppose. 

PARIS,  April  n. 
Perfect  weather.    Paris  very  gay.    As  a  holiday,  all  very 

well:    as  a  business,  what  a  life!    Mme.  M i  advises 

stop  lessons  now  for  a  while.  M.  very  disappointed,  but 
yields  finally  very  gracefully.  How  changed  Jerry  will 
find  her!  He  agrees  to  stay  a  fortnight  at  least,  which  de- 
lights M.  And  me,  too.  We  must  have  one  of  our  old 
walking-trips,  perhaps  try  an  ascension.  Have  got  at  the 
Code  again. 

April  15. 

Weather  still  holds.  Jerry  expected  to-morrow.  M.  has 
taken  to  reading.  She  and  J.  read  aloud  David  Copperfield, 
turn  about.  What  good  work  it  is,  after  all!  Hester  taught 
her  to  read  unknown  to  her  father,  who  seems  to  have  for- 
bidden it.  It  was  her  only  disobedience,  it  seems.  I  wonder 
what  that  woman's  real  name  was?  She  learned  to  read 
from  the  Psalms,  but  never  read  much.  The  Wilkes  case 
going  badly,  I'm  afraid:  no  postponement.  They  will  be 
able  to  appeal,  however. 


156] 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

MY  PEARL  OF  TOO  GREAT  PRICE 

KITCHENER  and  I  were  very  philosophic  as  we  crossed  the 
Channel  that  fine  day  in  April.  We  had  got  thoroughly 
fitted  to  each  other,  now,  the  rough  edges  smoothed  down, 
all  idiosyncrasies  allowed  for;  we  knew  when  to  press  hard, 
so  to  speak,  and  when  to  go  light,  and  the  result  was  a  good, 
seasoned  intimacy  that  lasted  twelve  long  years. 

I  have  always  been  a  good  sailor,  a  slight  headache  in  an 
unusually  nasty  roll  being  my  only  concession  to  Neptune, 
and  Kitch  and  I  viewed  with  cynical  tolerance  the  depress- 
ing antics  of  our  less  fortunate  fellow-travellers.  As  we 
neared  the  French  coast  I  realised  gradually  how  good  it 
would  be  to  see  Roger  again,  and  found  time  to  regret  a 
little  of  my  solitary  lingering  through  the  damp  English 
winter,  which  seemed  more  oppressive  in  retrospect  than 
it  had  been  in  reality. 

For  Margarita  I  had  only  the  kindest  feelings  and  the 
friendliest  hopes  that  she  would  develop  into  a  good  wife 
for  Roger.  To  marry  such  a  bewitching  knot  of  possibilities 
was  of  course  more  or  less  a  risk,  but  on  the  other  hand,  if 
any  man  could  succeed  in  such  an  undertaking,  surely 
that  man  was  our  placid,  patient  Roger!  I  had  learned 
patience  myself  during  the  winter,  by  dint  of  chess  and 
philosophy,  and  somehow,  as  the  little  Channel  boat  pitched 
under  me  and  the  shifty  April  clouds  rolled  along  the  sky 
over  me,  life,  as  it  stretched  out  for  me  and  Kitchener,  was 
not  too  gloomy:  was  even  flavoured  with  a  certain  easy 
freedom  that  rather  tickled  my  middle-aged  epicurean  palate 

[157] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


— for  the  middle  thirties  were,  even  twenty  years  ago, 
reasonably  middle-aged. 

Nevertheless  it  was  impossible  not  to  remember  that  my 
feelings  had  not  always  been  thus  ordered,  and  when,  a  .few 
hours  later,  the  guard  let  me  out  of  the  carriage,  and  I  saw 
only  Roger  on  the  platform,  I  realised  that  I  had  braced 
myself  a  little  for  a  meeting  that  did  not  take  place. 

"It's  good  to  see  you  again,  Jerry,"  he  said  heartily, 
" mighty  good!"  And  with  his  hand  gripping  mine,  I  had  a 
moment  of  whimsical  wonder  that  any  woman  born  should 
have  been  able  to  threaten  such  a  friendship  for  (or  by!)  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye. 

We  talked  of  our  plans,  mine,  such  as  they  were,  being 
only  too  ready  to  merge  into  his,  which  included  a  stiff 
climb  through  the  Swiss  Alps;  of  my  Oxford  sojourn;  of 
Margarita's  music  and  his  readiness  to  get  back  to  America 
as  soon  as  she  should  feel  equal  to  it.  It  amused  me  a  little 
to  discover  how  simply  Roger  accepted  his  role  of  indulgent 
American  husband:  those  men  are  born  to  it,  I  believe — 
there  seems  no  crisis,  no  period  of  instruction,  even.  I  never 
pretended  to  half  his  real  strength  of  character,  but  I  could 
not  have  imagined  myself  stopping  in  circumstances  more  or 
less  distasteful  to  me  until  my  wife's  whim  should  release  us! 
I  had  spoken  to  no  woman  for  many  months,  you  must  re- 
member, but  my  landlady  and  the  Professor's  trained  nurse, 
and  unflattering  though  it  may  sound  to  the  much-desired 
sex,  I  had  not  been  conscious  of  any  special  lack,  after  the  first 
few  weeks. 

To  this  day  I  have  never  known  the  name  of  the  street 
nor  the  number  of  that  Paris  appartement.  We  were  deep  in 
our  plans  for  mountaineering,  and  except  that  I  noted  the 
wheezy  little  lift  of  Mrs..Upgrove's  letter,  I  remember  liter- 
ally nothing  about  that  excursion  but  the  familiar  odour 
of  the  Paris  asphalt,  the  snapping  and  cracking  of  the 
Gallic  horsewhip,  and  the  smoke  of  my  own  cigarette  which 
blew  into  my  eyes  as  I  threw  it  away  on  entering  the  house. 


MY    PEARL   OF    TOO    GREAT   PRICE 

The  late  afternoon  sun  poured  into  the  gay  little  drawing- 
room,  all  buff  and  dull  rose,  in  the  charming  French  style, 
and  full  of  sweet  spring  flowers  in  bowls  and  square  jars  of 
Majolica  ware.  The  height  of  the  appartement  made  it 
delightfully  airy  and  bright,  and  through  the  western  win- 
dows I  glimpsed  the  feathery  tips  of  the  delicate  new  green 
of  the  trees.  A  small  grand  piano  stood  near  an  open  win- 
dow and  a  gorgeous  length  of  Chinese  embroidery  on  the 
opposite  wall  was  reflected  in  a  tall,  narrow  mirror  that 
doubled  the  apparent  size  of  the  room  and  gave  a  pleasant 
depth  and  richness  to  all  the  airy  clearness  of  the  spring  that 
seemed  to  fairly  incarnate  itself  in  the  spot  and  the  hour.  I 
have  never  liked  Oriental  embroideries  since  that  day,  and 
the  clogging  scent  of  hyacinth  is  a  thing  I  would  take  some 
trouble  to  avoid;  those  sad  little  spires  of  violet,  pink  and 
white  spell  only  sorrow  to  one  man,  at  least:  sorrow  and 
memories  of  pitiful  and  unmanly  weakness. 

For  standing  by  the  piano,  one  hand  with  its  cloudy, 
flashing  sapphire  white  among  the  pale  stiff  spikes,  her  deer- 
like  head  dark  against  the  fantastic  rose  and  orange  of  the 
embroidered  dragons,  was  Margarita,  a  lovely  smile  curv- 
ing her  lips  and  the  warm  light  in  her  deep  slate-coloured  eyes 
burning  down,  down  into  my  very  vitals.  In  that  one  rich, 
welcome  smile  all  my  calm  English  months  melted  like  wax 
in  a  furnace,  and  Oxford  was  a  drab  dream  and  Surrey  a 
stupid  sick-bay!  As  I  faced  her,  the  old  wound  burst  and 
widened,  with  that  torturing  sweet  shock  that  I  had  relegated 
sagely  to  poets  and  youthful  heats,  and  I  knew  that  I  loved 
her  hopelessly,  with  a  love  that  put  out  my  love  for  Roger 
and  my  mother  as  the  sun  puts  out  the  small  and  steady  stars. 

I  had  left  a  bewitching,  unlikely  elf;  I  found  a  magnificent 
woman.  She  seemed  to  my  gloating  eyes  to  have  grown 
tall,  though  that  might  have  been  the  effect  of  her  loosely 
flowing,  long-trained  gown,  which  was  as  if  she  had  put  on 
a  garment  of  shot  green  and  blue  silk  and  then  another 
over  it  of  rich,  yellowish  lace.  The  neck  was  cut  in  a  sort  of 

[159] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


square,  such  as  one  sees  in  the  pictures  of  Venetian  ladies 
in  the  cinque  cento,  and  at  the  base  of  her  full  throat  lay 
an  antique  necklace  of  aqua  marines.  Heavens!  How 
perfect  she  was!  As  she  moved  over  in  her  grand  free 
stride  and  took  my  hands  in  both  of  hers,  vitality  and  glow- 
ing strength  seemed  to  pour  along  her  veins  into  mine;  she 
seemed  almost  extravagantly  alive,  and  I  a  pallid,  stupid 
dabbler  on  the  shore  of  things.  Her  figure  was  much  fuller; 
her  arm,  where  the  loose  lace  sleeve  fell  back  from  it,  was 
plump  and  round,  and  this  and  the  increased  softness  of 
her  throat  and  chin  added  a  year  or  two — yes,  three  or  four 
— to  what  I  had  hitherto  believed  to  be  her  age.  She  was 
a  fit  mate  for  Roger  now;  no  longer  a  captured  child- 
witch. 

I  bent  over  her  hands,  to  cover  my  emotion,  and  cere- 
moniously kissed  the  backs  of  them;  there  was  a  creamy 
dimple  below  each  finger  now.  As  I  lifted  my  head  and 
heard  Roger's  chuckle  of  delight  at  my  amazement  at  her, 
I  saw  for  the  first  time  that  we  three  were  not  alone  in  the 
room,  and  found  myself  bowing  to  a  neat,  chill  British 
spinster,  big  and  white  of  tooth,  big  and  flat  of  waist,  big 
and  bony  of  knuckle.  She  wore  sensible,  square-toed 
boots  and  the  fashion  of  her  clothing  suggested  a  conscien- 
tious tailor  who  had  momentarily  lost  sight  of  her  sex. 
She  bore  a  pince-nez  upon  her  flat  chest,  the  necessity  for 
which  was  obvious,  but  her  short-sighted  blue  eyes  were 
kind  and  the  grasp  of  her  knuckly  hand  was  human.  She 
was  a  thorough-going  lady  if  she  was  a  trifle  grotesque,  and 
my  respectful  friendship  for  Barbara  Jencks,  late  of  the 
household  of  the  Governor- General  of  Canada,  has  never 
waned. 

"  You  find  Mrs.  Bradley  somewhat  changed,  I  dare  say," 
she  remarked,  by  way  of  breaking  a  rather  strained  silence, 
for  Roger,  never  talkative,  was  hunting  among  a  pile  of  guide- 
books and  Margarita  was  staring  dreamily  into  the  sunset, 
now  a  miracle  of  golden  rose. 
[160] 


MY   PEARL   OF   TOO    GREAT   PRICE 

"Somewhat,  indeed,"  I  responded  politely,  my  mind 
darting  back  to  that  girl  in  the  red  jersey  who  had  sat  cross- 
legged  like  a  Turk  on  the  sand,  and  told  me  that  I  loved  her. 
What  would  the  Governor-General  have  thought  of  that 
girl? 

Again  a  pause,  and  now  Miss  Jencks  addressed  Margarita, 
affectionately,  but  firmly — oh,  very  firmly! 

"  What  do  you  find  so  absorbing  out  of  the  window,  my 
dear?" 

Margarita  started  like  a  forgetful  child,  blushed  a  little, 
murmured  impatiently  in  French  and  then  smiled  delight- 
fully at  me. 

"But  this  is  Jerry,  Miss  Jencks,  Roger 'sand  my  Jerry," 
she  said  beseechingly.  "  You  do  not  mean  that  I  must  be 
polite  to  Jerry?" 

"  Most  assuredly,"  returned  Miss  Jencks.  "  When  a  gen- 
tleman, even  though  he  be  an  old  friend,  makes  a  journey 
to  see  one  after  a  long  absence,  he  expects  and  deserves  to 
be  entertained!" 

Roger  caught  my  eye,  made  his  old  whimsical  grimace,  and 
rooted  deeper  into  the  guide-books.  Margarita  sighed  gently, 
seated  herself  in  a  high  carved  chair  and  inquired,  with  her 
lips,  adorably  after  my  health  and  my  journey,  but  laughed 
naughtily  with  her  eyes,  an  accomplishment  so  foreign  to  my 
knowledge  of  her  as  to  reduce  me  to  utter  banality;  which 
suited  Miss  Jencks  perfectly,  however,  so  that  she  resigned 
the  conversational  rudder  to  her  pupil  and  concerned  herself 
with  knitting  a  hideous  grey  comforter  (for  the  Seaman's 
Home,  I  learned  later),  giving  the  occupation  a  character 
worthy  the  most  comme-il-jaut  clubman. 

A  neat,  black  uniformed  bonne  brought  in  tea,  in  the 
English  fashion,  and  Margarita  served  us  most  charmingly 
under  the  eagle  eye  of  Miss  Jencks,  eating,  herself,  like  a 
hungry  school-girl,  and  stealing  Roger's  cakes  impudently 
when  the  some-time  directress  of  the  Governor-General's 
household  affected  a  welJ-bred  deafness  to  her  request  for 

[161] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


more.  After  tea  Miss  Jencks  departed  with  her  knitting 
and  we  three  were  comfortably  silent;  Margarita  dreamy, 
I  all  in  a  maze  at  her,  Roger  relishing  my  wonder.  The 
hyacinths  smelled  strong  in  the  growing  dusk,  the  Chinese 
dragons  burned  against  the  wall :  colour  and  odour  were  alike 
a  frame  for  her  beauty  and  her  richness.  I  can  never  wholly 
separate  that  hour  in  my  memory  from  the  visions  of  a  fever 
and  the  burning  heat  of  worse  than  the  African  Desert. 

Later  we  sat  about  the  candle-shaded  dinner  table,  a  meal 
where  English  service  faded  in  the  greater  glory  of  French 
cooking,  and  I  rebelled  with  Roger  at  Miss  Jencks's  curtail- 
ment of  her  charge's  appetite. 

"Surely,  Miss  Jencks,  this  escarole  is  harmless,"  Roger 
protested,  with  a  smile  at  Margarita's  empty  plate,  but  when 
that  lady  repeated,  nodding  wisely: 

"I  assure  you,  Mr.  Bradley,  she  is  better  without  it," 
he  succumbed  meekly,  even  slavishly,  I  thought,  and  shook 
his  head  at  Margarita's  pleading  eyes. 

In  the  centre  of  the  table  was  a  graceful  silver  dish,  filled 
with  fruit,  and  as  the  attendant  bonne  left  the  room,  Mar- 
garita, with  a  little  cooing  throaty  cry,  reached  over  to  it, 
seized  with  incredible  swiftness  two  great  handfuls  of  the 
fruit,  and  leaping  from  her  seat  retreated  with  her  booty  to  the 
salon.  For  a  second  she  stood  in  the  doorway,  two  yellow 
bananas  hugged  to  her  breast  among  the  rich  lace,  an  orange 
in  her  elbow,  her  teeth  plunged  into  a  great  black  Hamburg 
grape,  her  eyes  two  dark  blue  mutinies. 

Roger  burst  into  a  Homeric  laugh  and  even  Miss  Jencks 
smiled  apologetically. 

"I  suppose  we  must  let  her  have  the  fruit,"  she  conceded, 
"an  old  friend  like  Mr.  Jerrolds  will  make  allowance — " 

"We  expect  the  child  in  June,"  said  Roger  simply,  and 
then  something  seemed  literally  to  give  way  in  my  brain  and 
I  clutched  the  table-cloth  as  a  sharp  hard  pain  darted 
through  my  temples.  Strange,  unbelievable  though  it  may 
seem,  I  had  never  thought  of  such  a  thing  as  this! 
[162] 


FOR  HOURS   AND   HOURS   I  WALKF.D,   MUTTERING   AND   CURSING 


MY   PEARL   OF   TOO    GREAT   PRICE 

My  face  must  have  excused  my  brusque  departure,  my 
utter  inability  to  eat  or  drink  another  mouthful.  I  muttered 
something  about  a  rough  voyage  and  my  land-legs  (I,  who 
never  knew  the  meaning  of  mal-de-mer!)  and  I  know  my 
forehead  must  have  been  drawn,  for  Miss  Jencks  pressed 
sal  volatile  upon  me  solicitously.  Roger,  manlike,  let  me 
get  off  immediately  and  alone,  as  I  begged,  and  once  at  the 
bottom  of  the  interminable  stairs,  I  flung  myself  into  a  wan- 
dering fiacre,  and  drove  through  the  merry,  lighted  Paris 
boulevards,  a  helpless  prey  to  passions  black  and  bitter — 
to  a  wicked,  seething  jealousy  such  as  I  had  never  dreamed 
possible  to  a  decent  man. 

That  was  the  deep  throat,  the  large  and  lovely  arm! 
That  was  the  dreamy,  full-fed  calm,  the  woman  ruminant! 
God!  how  the  thought  tortured  and  tore  at  me!  I,  who  had 
thought  myself  cured  and  a  philosopher — a  kindly  philoso- 
pher! My  first  fit  of  love  for  her  had  carried  its  exalta- 
tion with  it,  but  in  this  grinding,  physical  rage  there  was  only 
shame  and  madness. 

I  caught,  somehow,  a  train  for  Calais,  I  stumbled  onto  a 
boat  there  in  a  driving  rain,  and  walked  the  deck  in  it  all 
night.  I  travelled  blindly  to  Oxford  and  tramped  through 
soggy,  steaming  lanes,  through  sheets  of  drizzle,  through  icy 
runnels  and  marshy  grass.  For  hours  and  hours  I  walked, 
muttering  and  cursing,  my  teeth  chattering  in  my  head,  my 
brain  on  fire,  my  feet  slushing  in  my  soaking  boots.  I  did 
not  know  clearly  where  I  was,  I  did  not  know  why  I  was  walk- 
ing nor  where,  but  walk  I  must,  like  the  convicts  on  the  tread- 
mill. Something  laughed  horribly  in  the  air  just  behind 
me  and  said  like  a  parrot,  over  and  over  again: 

"We  expect  the  child  in  June!  We  expect  the  child  in 
June!  We  expect  the  child — " 

I  hit  out  with  my  blackthorn  stick.  "Damn  you  and  your 
child!"  I  cried  wildly,  and  fell  face  forward  in  a  marshy 
puddle. 


163] 


CHAPTER  XIX 
FATE  LANDS  ME  ON  THE  ROCKS 

LONG  periods  of  time  passed;  days  perhaps,  perhaps 
years.  Some  one,  I  know,  turned  with  difficulty  on  his  side, 
so  that  the  puddle  did  not  choke  his  mouth  and  nostrils. 
Some  one,  by  and  by,  felt  something  warm  and  wet  and  rough 
against  his  icy  cheek  and  was  grateful  for  the  feeling.  Some 
one  was  reading  to  me  from  a  book  which  described  the  sen- 
sations of  a  man  lifted  up  and  carried  in  a  broken  balloon 
that  could  only  ride  a  foot  from  the  ground,  bumping  and 
jarring  horribly,  and  I  was  that  man,  in  some  strange  way, 
and  at  the  same  time  I  was  the  illustrations  that  accom- 
panied the  tale.  I  read  the  story  myself  finally,  aloud  and 
very  shrilly,  as  that  unfortunate  man  bumped  along.  After 
days  of  this  cold  journey,  the  man  fell  out  of  the  balloon  into 
a  warm  lake  and  was  delighted  with  the  change,  for  his  very 
soul  was  chilled — until  he  realised,  at  first  dimly,  that  the 
water  was  growing  hotter  every  minute  and  that  the  intention 
was  to  torture  him  to  death!  I  was  that  man,  moreover,  and 
I  kicked  and  screamed  wildly,  though  every  motion  in  the 
boiling  water  was  agony.  Just  at  the  point  when  my  breath 
was  failing  and  my  heart  slowed,  they  turned  off  the  water 
in  the  lake  from  a  tap,  and  as  it  slowly  receded,  I  was  safe 
again,  and  knew  I  could  fall  asleep. 

Long  I  slept,  and  dreamed  inexpressibly,  and  then  I  would 
feel  the  insidious  lapping  of  the  warm  lake,  rejoice  a  moment 
in  the  comforting  heat,  then  realise  with  horror  that  the  tem- 
perature was  rising  slowly  but  surely,  and  the  inferno  would 
begin  all  over  again.  Every  joint  and  muscle  was  red-hot, 
each  burning  breath  cut  me  like  a  knife. 
[164] 


FATE    LANDS   ME    ON   THE    ROCKS 

I  could  not  count  how  many  times  this  happened,  but 
I  prayed  loudly  for  the  man  to  die  (he  had  been  confirmed, 
so  he  had  a  legal  right  to  pray)  and  after  a  long  time  I 
began  to  have  hopes  that  he  would,  for  he  discovered  a  way 
of  drawing  his  face  down  under  the  boiling  water  and  ceasing 
to  breathe.  Whenever  he  did  this,  a  cold,  smarting  rain 
drove  through  the  water  on  his  face  and  forced  him  to  breathe, 
but  he  managed  to  sink  deeper  and  deeper,  till  at  last  he  felt 
the  throb  of  the  great  world  on  its  axle  going  round,  and 
saw  the  stars  below  him,  and  knew  he  was  nearly  free. 

"More  oxygen!"  said  a  tiny,  dry  voice  far  off  in  infinite 
space,  "more  oxygen!" 

I  grew  light  and  rose  to  the  surface;  the  stars  went  out. 

"More  oxygen!"  said  the  voice  again,  louder  now  and 
close  to  me.  I  fought  to  sink  back  again  but  it  was  useless; 
I  burst  up  to  the  surface  and  breathed  the  sweet,  icy  air 
against  my  will. 

"Now  the  mustard  again,  over  the  heart,"  said  the  voice, 
"and  try  the  brandy." 

Something  ran  like  fire  through  my  veins,  I  opened 
my  eyes,  stared  into  a  black,  bearded  face  and  said  dis- 
tinctly: 

"You  nearly  lost  that  man.  He  heard  the  thing  going 
round." 

Then  I  fell  into  a  deep  and  dreamless  sleep. 

I  was  very  weak  and  tired  when  I  woke,  but  quite  com- 
posed. That  feeling  of  gentleness  and  conscious  pathos 
that  floods  the  weak  and  empty  and  lately  racked  body  was 
mine,  and  I  looked  pensively  at  the  white,  blue-veined  hand 
that  lay  so  lax  on  the  counterpane.  What  a  siege  it  had  been 
for  the  poor  devil  that  owned  that  hand!  For  I  realised 
that  I  had  been  very,  very  ill  indeed. 

As  I  studied  the  hand  it  was  lifted  gently  from  the  counter- 
pane by  another  and  clasped  lightly  but  firmly  at  the  wrist. 
The  arm  above  this  hand  was  clad  in  striped  blue  and  white 
gingham;  a  full  white  apron  fell  just  at  the  limit  of  my  side- 

[165] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


wise  vision.  I  was  far  too  weak  to  raise  my  eyes,  but  it  oc- 
curred to  me  that  this  must  be  my  landlady,  for  I  recognised 
the  footboard  of  my  bed.  And  yet  it  was  not  at  all  like  my 
room.  The  armchair  was  gone,  the  books  were  gone,  the 
student  lamp  was  gone,  although  it  was  my  sitting-room. 
Then  why  was  the  bed  there?  I  frowned  impatiently  and 
then  the  white  apron  lowered  itself,  a  white  collar  appeared, 
and  above  it  a  face  which  was  perfectly  familiar  to  me, 
though  I  could  not  attach  any  name  to  it. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  Mr.  Jerrolds  ?  a  drink,  perhaps  ?  " 
said  a  clear,  competent  voice,  and  I  knew  at  once  who  she 
was — the  Professor's  sister's  trained  nurse.  For  one  dread- 
ful moment  I  feared  I  was  the  Professor's  sister — it  seemed 
to  me  it  must  be  so,  that  there  was  no  other  course  open  to 
me,  for  that  was  the  person  Miss  Buxton  nursed !  Then, 
as  she  repeated  my  name  quietly,  it  was  as  if  a  veil  had  been 
drawn,  and  I  understood  everything.  My  bed  had  been 
moved  into  the  study ;  her  bed  was  in  my  room.  Doubtless 
the  Professor  had  sent  for  her. 

I  felt  thirsty,  and  hungry,  too,  a  fact  known  to  her,  ap- 
parently, for  in  a  moment  she  brought  me  a  bowl  of  delicious 
broth,  which  she  fed  me  very  neatly  by  the  spoonful.  It 
made  another  man  of  me,  that  broth,  and  I  watched  her 
record  it  on  a  formidable  chart,  devoted  to  my  important 
affairs,  with  great  interest. 

"Have  I  been  ill  long?"  I  asked,  and  my  voice  sounded 
hollow  and  rather  high  to  my  critical  sense. 

"Two  weeks,  Mr.  Jerrolds,"  she  said  promptly,  "quite 
long  enough,  wasn't  it?  It  has  been  most  interesting:  a  very 
pretty  case,  indeed." 

"What  was  it?" 

"Inflammatory  rheumatism,"  she  said,  with  a  gratifying 
absence  of  doubt  or  delay  (such  a  relief  to  a  sick  person!) 
"  and  a  great  deal  of  fever,  very  high.  You  ran  a  remarkable 
temperature,  Mr.  Jerrolds." 

I  received  this  information  with  the  peculiar  complacence 
[166] 


FATE    LANDS    ME    ON    THE    ROCKS 

of  the  invalid.  It  seemed  to  me  to  denote  marked  ability 
and  powers  beyond  the  common,  that  fever! 

"How  did  I  get  here?" 

She  sat  in  a  low  chair  by  the  bed  and  regarded  me  pleas- 
antly out  of  the  kind,  wise,  brown  eyes. 

"  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it,"  she  said,  "  because  I  am  sure 
you  will  be  easier,  but  after  I  am  through  I  want  you  to  try 
to  compose  yourself  and  go  off  to  sleep,  because  this  will 
be  enough  talking  for  now,  and  I  want  you  to  be  fresh  for 
the  doctor.  Do  you  understand  ?  " 

I  dropped  my  eyelids  in  token  of  agreement  and  she  went 
on. 

"You  remember  that  you  complained  of  feeling  unwell 
in  Paris  at  Mr.  Bradley's  house.  You  probably  had  quite  a 
temperature  then,  though  you  might  not  have  known  it. 
You  came  directly  back  to  Oxford,  but  for  forty-eight  hours 
no  one  knew  where  you  were,  for  the  people  here  supposed 
you  there.  Finally,  when  Mr.  Bradley  telegraphed,  they 
grew  anxious  here,  and  while  they  were  wondering  what 
to  do,  your  dog  ran  in,  acting  so  strangely  that  they  suspected 
something  and  followed  him.  He  led  them  directly  to  you 
and  they  found  you  unconscious  in  a  marshy  old  lane  about 
six  miles  out  from  the  town.  They  brought  you  here  in  a 
horse  blanket,  the  Professor  sent  for  me,  and  we  have  been 
taking  care  of  you  ever  since.  Mr.  Bradley  has  been  here 
twice,  but  you  were  too  ill  to  see  anybody;  he  saw  that  every- 
thing possible  was  being  done.  I  shall  write  him  directly 
that  you  are  on  the  uphill  road  now,  and  that  care  and  pa- 
tience are  all  you  need. 

"Now,  take  this  medicine,  Mr.  Jerrolds,  and  repay  me 
for  this  long  story  by  going  directly  to  sleep." 

I  took  it,  lay  for  a  moment  in  a  dreamy  wonder,  and 
drifted  off.  As  she  had  said,  the  uphill  journey  had  begun. 

That  afternoon  I  saw  the  doctor,  a  grizzled,  kindly  man, 
and  it  was  he  who  told  me  what  I  had  already  somehow 
divined — that  I  owed  my  life  to  Harriet  Buxton. 

[167] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


"  I  never  saw  such  nursing,"  he  said  frankly;  "  the  woman 
has  a  real  genius.  It  was  nip  and  tuck  with  you,  Mr.  Jer- 
rolds,  and  she  simply  set  her  teeth  and  wouldn't  give  up! 
One  can't  wonder  the  American  nurses  get  such  prices — 
they're  worth  it.  Now  it's  hold  hard  and  cultivate  your 
patience,  and  get  back  that  two  or  three  stone  we  lost  dur. 
ing  the  siege,  and  then  good-bye  to  me! " 

But  oh,  how  long  it  was !  Day  after  day,  and  night  after 
night,  and  day  after  day  again  I  counted  the  pieces  of  furni- 
ture in  the  bare,  dull  room  and  read  faces  into  the  hideous 
wall-paper  and  stared  into  the  empty  window.  The  little 
night-light  punctuated  the  dark;  the  feeble  sunlight  strug- 
gled through  the  rain.  The  few  kindly  friends  who  called 
upon  me  I  could  not  see;  their  sympathetic  commonplaces 
were  unendurable  to  my  weakened  nerves.  Had  it  not  been 
for  the  return,  now  and  then,  of  the  pains  I  had  suffered  in 
my  delirium,  mercifully  less  and  less  violent,  which  made 
the  periods  of  their  absence  hours  of  comparative  pleasure, 
I  think  I  should  have  grown  into  a  hopeless  nervous  invalid 
from  sheer  ennui.  I  had  never  been  ill  that  I  remember 
since  the  days  of  my  childish  maladies,  and  I  fretted  as  only 
such  an  one  can  and  must  fret  under  the  irksome  novelty  of 
pain,  weakness  and  irritation. 

How  Harriet  Buxton  bore  with  my  whims  and  fads  and 
downright  rudeness,  I  cannot  tell.  When  in  a  fit  of  contri- 
tion I  asked  her  this,  she  smiled  and  said  that  men  were 
generally  irritable. 

"But  I  should  go  mad  if  I  were  obliged  to  humour  the 
caprices  of  such  a  bear  as  I!" 

"But  you  are  not  a  nurse!"  she  answered  quietly. 

After  ten  days  of  steady  convalescence,  when  I  was  propped 
up  a  little  upon  my  pillows  and  could  feed  myself  very 
handily  from  an  ever-increasingly  varied  menu,  I  asked  sud- 
denly if  she  had  heard  from  Roger  lately. 

"Yes,"  she  said  promptly,  "only  yesterday.  I  was  wait- 
ing till  you  asked.  Before  I  give  you  the  letter  I  must  tell 
[168] 


FATE    LANDS    ME   ON   THE    ROCKS 

you  that  they  are  no  longer  in  Paris:  they  have  gone  back  to 
America." 

"America?"  I  echoed  vaguely,  with  a  half-shocked  con- 
sciousness that  I  did  not  care  very  much  one  way  or  the  other 
where  they  were. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Bradley  came  in  the  day  before  they  sailed, 
but  you  were  far  too  ill  to  see  him.  At  the  same  time  I  saw 
no  reason  why  you  should  not  pull  through,  and  told  him  so. 
Mrs.  Bradley  suddenly  expressed  a  wish  to  go  to  her  old  home, 
and  though  for  some  reasons  they  did  not  like  to  let  her  begin 
a  sea  voyage,  for  other  reasons  they  wanted  to  gratify  her. 
She  grew  quite  determined  and  they  decided  to  allow  it. 
You  know  she  expects  her  baby  in  June." 

"Yes  I  know,"  I  said  quietly.  I  remembered  the  man 
who  had  tramped  the  wet  lanes,  but  to-day  he  seemed  to  me 
a  wicked  fool,  justly  punished  for  his  folly.  For  I  knew, 
though  no  one  had  told  me,  that  I  should  never  be  the  same 
after  this  sickness.  The  very  fibres  of  my  soul  had  been 
twisted  and  burned  in  that  white-hot  furnace  of  my  delirium, 
and  though  Nature  might  forgive  me,  she  could  never  forget. 
Every  winter  she  would  take  her  toll,  every  damp  season 
she  would  audit  my  account,  after  every  exposure  or  fatigue 
she  would  lightly  tap  some  shrinking  nerve  and  whisper 
"Remember!"  A  passion  whose  strength  I  had  never  sus- 
pected had  brought  me  to  this  bed,  and  in  this  bed  that  same 
passion  had  struggled  and  shrivelled  and  died.  It  was  with 
no  mock  philosophy  that  I  thought  of  Margarita.  No,  the 
fool  knew  his  folly  now.  But  it  was  a  folly  of  which  I  had  no 
need,  I  verily  believe,  to  feel  ashamed.  It  was  not  that  I 
was  the  sort  of  monk  we  are  told  the  Devil  would  be,  when 
he  was  sick,  although  my  physical  weakness  may  have  lain 
— God  knows! — at  the  root  of  it,  once.  No,  I  had  changed. 
Those  who  have  gone  through  some  such  change  (and  I 
wonder,  sometimes,  how  many  of  the  passive,  unremarkable 
people  I  pass  on  the  street,  in  the  fields,  in  hotels,  have  gone 
through  such)  know  how  well  I  knew  the  truth  of  this  matter 

[169] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


and  how  little  likely  I  was  to  deceive  myself.  I  loved  her, 
yes,  and  shall  love  her  while  consciousness  remains  with  me, 
but  it  would  never  again  be  bitter  in  my  mouth  and  black 
in  my  heart. 

"Let  me  see  the  letter,  please,  Miss  Buxton,"  I  asked, 
and  she  brought  it,  cutting  it  for  me  with  her  neat  accuracy 
of  motion  and  conservation  of  energy.  I  spread  the  single 
sheet  open  and  began,  but  I  never  read  more  than  one 
line  of  that  letter. 

For  it  began, 

Dear  old  Jerry: 

Ever  since  Kitchener  found  you,  I  have  changed — 

"Kitch!  Kitch!"  I  cried,  overcome  with  shame  and  pen- 
itence. "Oh,  Miss  Buxton,  do  you — does  anybody — " 

"He  is  just  outside,"  she  said,  "I  will  have  him  sent  up  at 
once.  I  thought  you  would  want  him  soon,  Mr.  Jerrolds. 
And  don't  worry — he  has  never  been  neglected." 

I  clutched  the  sheet  in  my  impatience.  Very  soon  there 
was  a  scurrying  through  the  hall,  a  little  gasping  snuffle,  a 
small,  sharp  bark.  Then  he  was  on  the  bed  before  I  saw 
his  good  brindled  head,  almost,  and  in  my  arms.  I  pressed 
my  face  against  his  dear,  quivering  coat,  I  surrendered  my 
cheek  to  his  warm,  rough  tongue,  I  translated  each  happy 
convulsive  wriggle. 

"Dear  old  Kitch — good  fellow!"  I  muttered,  none  too 
steadily,  for  I  was  not  strong  yet,  and  he  seemed  suddenly 
the  only  friend  on  whom  I  could  unreservedly  count.  Roger 
had  wished  to  stay  with  me,  I  knew,  but  of  course  he  must 
go  with  his  wife,  and  I  am  glad  that  I  never  grudged  his 
absence  a  moment.  For  this  cause  shall  a  man  leave  his 
life-long  friend  and  cleave  only  to  her,  and  there  is  no  other 
way.  But  nothing,  nothing  could  separate  Kitch  and  me! 

Miss  Buxton  left  us  alone  together  and  we  discussed  the 
situation  gravely  and  thoroughly  and  assured  each  other 
that  it  was  only  a  matter  of  patience,  now,  and  then,  away 
together ! 

[170] 


FATE    LANDS   ME   ON   THE    ROCKS 

My  spirits  rose  from  the  day  he  came  in,  and  in  another 
week  I  had  advanced  to  a  deep  cushioned  chair  in  the  win- 
dow for  an  hour  a  day.  But  it  was  not  a  very  interesting 
window,  commanding  as  it  did  my  neighbour's  eight-foot 
garden  wall  crowned  with  inhospitable  broken  glass,  and 
though  I  appreciate  the  marvel  of  the  spring  as  much,  I 
suppose,  as  most  of  us,  I  could  never  occupy  myself  very 
long  with  natural  beauties  exclusively,  and  the  trees  and  the 
grass  could  not  satisfy  my  craving  for  human  interest.  Now 
that  I  was  ready  for  them,  all  my  friends  were  off  for  their 
Easter  holiday,  and  I  would  not  keep  the  Professor  from 
his  spring  gardening,  though  he  offered  manfully.  I  have 
never  cared  for  games,  with  the  single  exception  of  his 
beloved  chess,  and  my  eyes  soon  tired  of  reading. 

And  so  at  last,  in  default  of  something  more  to  my  mind,  I 
turned  to  my  nurse  and  determined  to  make  that  silent 
woman  talk.  At  first  it  was  difficult,  for  I  tried  to  discover 
her  feelings,  her  attitude,  her  history.  As  to  the  first  two  of 
these  I  met  only  failure  and  the  last  was  pathetically  simple. 
An  orphan  she  was,  a  bread-winner,  an  observer.  I  say  it 
was  pathetic,  but  not  that  she  was.  Things  are  changing 
rapidly  with  women,  I  can  see  that  plainly,  but  twenty  years 
ago  a  man  still  felt,  ridiculously  perhaps,  that  a  kindly, 
competent  woman,  however  successful  in  her  chosen  profes- 
sion, must  needs  be,  in  the  very  nature  of  the  case,  even  more 
kindly  and  more  competent  with  a  child  on  her  lap  and  an 
arm  about  her  waist.  If  in  the  new  doctrine  of  the  Brother- 
hood of  Man  it  is  admitted  that  we  owe  each  our  debt  to 
humanity  and  posterity,  I,  for  one,  have  never  been  able  to 
understand  why  women  should  not  pay  that  debt  in  the  coin- 
age most  obviously  provided  them  for  the  purpose.  The 
Brotherhood  of  Man  is  a  great  idea,  but  surely  without  the 
Motherhood  of  Woman  it  would  grow  a  little  shadowy  and 
impractical.  (I  speak  as  a  fool!) 

And  so,  I  repeat,  there  was  something  a  little  pathetic  to 
me  in  Harriet  Buxton's  life,  though  nothing  in  the  least  pathe- 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


tic  in  her  personality  or  her  actions.  Do  not  turn  on  me  too 
fiercely,  dear  ladies,  and  demand  of  me  with  your  well- 
known  remorseless  logic,  what  would  have  become  of  me  if 
Harriet  Buxton  had  not  been  beside  me  in  my  delirium, 
with  nothing  but  a  clinical  thermometer  on  her  knee,  and  a 
white  apron  around  her  waist.  Do  not,  I  beg  you,  for  I 
shall  shock  all  your  strict  habits  of  mind  by  taking  refuge  in 
blind,  illogical  instinct  and  reiterating  my  firm  conviction 
that  though  I  perish,  truth  is  so,  and  that  Nature  had  a 
better  use  for  Harriet's  lap  and  waist.  She  had!  (as  you 
used  to  say  in  the  old  emotional  era)  she  had!!  She  had!!! 

Well,  in  despair  of  eliciting  anything  romantic  from  her, 
I  languidly  inquired  as  to  her  travels.  They  were  not  ex- 
tensive: this  was  her  first  "trip  abroad."  It  had  been 
rather  a  failure,  in  a  way,  for  although  she  had  been  en- 
gaged with  the  understanding  that  her  passage  was  to  be  paid 
both  ways,  her  patient  on  recovery  had  decided  to  spend  the 
summer  abroad,  and  had  made  it  very  evident  that  she  did 
not  consider  herself  any  longer  responsible  for  her  nurse 
under  these  circumstances! 

"You  should  have  taken  legal  advice,"  I  expostulated, 
"  the  woman  was  dishonest.  It  was  shocking,  Miss  Buxton 
— surely  you  could  have  done  something?" 

"  Perhaps,"  she  admitted,  "  but  I  had  no  friends  here  and 
it  was  hard  enough  to  get  my  salary,  anyway.  I  could  have 
gone  with  Mrs.  Bradley  if  I  had  been  free.  As  it  was,  I  sent 
them  another  American  nurse  I  knew  of  in  London,  who  was 
glad  to  go  back." 

"Why  didn't  you  send  her  to  me  and  go  yourself?"  I 
questioned  curiously,  "  if  you  want  to  go  so  much?" 

She  looked  at  me  in  sincere  surprise. 

"  Why,  I  had  already  accepted  your  case,  Mr.  Jerrolds," 
she  said. 

Alas,  Harriet!  Why,  why  were  you  not  teaching  your 
simple  code  of  honour  to  some  sturdy,  kilted  Harry  ? 

There  seemed  to  be  nothing  more  to  be  got  from  Miss 
[172] 


FATE   LANDS   ME   ON   THE   ROCKS 

Buxton,  and  we  began  to  discuss  the  best  winter  climate  for 
me,  for  I  understood  perfectly  that  for  more  years  than  the 
doctor  cared  to  impress  upon  me  just  now  I  must  avoid 
damp  and  chill.  We  discussed  Nassau,  Bermuda,  Florida, 
and  I  mentioned  North  Carolina.  Then  Harriet  Buxton 
opened  her  lips  and  spoke,  and  in  a  few  amazed  moments 
it  became  clear  to  me  that  I  was  in  the  presence  of  a 
fanatic. 

For  she  had  been  in  North  Carolina,  and  this  State  that 
for  me  had  spelled  only  a  remarkably  curative  air  and  a  de- 
plorably illiterate  population  represented  the  hope  of  this 
woman's  life,  the  ambition  of  her  days  and  nights,  the 
Macedonia  that  cried  continually  in  her  ears,  "  Come  over 
and  help  us!" 

For  a  year  she  had  lived  there  in  the  western  mountains, 
giving  her  duty's  worth  of  hours  to  a  wealthy  patient,  bar- 
gaining for  so  much  free  time  to  devote  to  that  strange, 
pathetic  race  of  pure-blooded  mountaineers,  tall,  serious, 
shy  Anglo-Saxons,  our  veritable  elder  brothers,  ignorant  ap- 
pallingly, superstitious  incredibly,  grateful  and  generous 
to  a  degree.  As  she  talked,  rapidly  now,  with  flushing 
cheeks  and  kindling  eyes,  she  brought  vividly  before  me 
these  pale  and  patient  people,  welcoming  her  with  eager 
hands,  hanging  on  her  wonderful  skill,  listening  like  chidden 
children  to  her  horrified  insistence  upon  long-forgotten 
decencies  and  sanitary  measures  never  guessed.  As  my 
questions  grew  her  confidence  grew  with  them,  and  at  last 
she  went  quickly  to  her  room  to  return  with  a  thick,  black 
book,  which  she  thrust  into  my  hands. 

"It's  my  diary,"  she  explained.  "If  you  are  really  in- 
terested you  may  read  it.  Oh  Mr.  Jerrolds,  to  think  of  the 
money  that  goes  to  Africa  and  India  and  slums  full  of  Syrians 
and  Russian  Jews,  when  these  Americans — our  real  kin, 
you  know! — are  putting  an  axe  under  the  bed,  with  the  blade 
up,  to  check  a  haemorrhage !  If  they  were  Zulus, "  she  added, 
flashing,  "  some  one  might  do  something  for  them." 

[173] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


I  could  not  keep  myself  from  staring  at  her:  with  that 
flush,  those  kindling  brown  eyes  and  that  heaving  bosom, 
my  nurse  was  near  to  being  a  handsome  woman!  And  all 
because  the  natives  of  North  Carolina  had  no  adequate 
hospital  service.  Can  you  imagine  anything  more  extraor- 
dinary? I  opened  the  book  curiously;  not,  of  course,  that 
I  cared  tuppence  for-  the  natives,  but  that  I  had  actually 
begun  to  feel  interested  in  Harriet  Buxton. 

I  should  never  have  thought  of  it  again,  probably,  but  for 
Harriet  herself,  for  now  that  the  magic  string  had  been 
touched,  her  heart  overflowed  to  its  echoes,  and  my  waking 
hours  were  filled  with  anecdotes  touching,  brutal  or  humour- 
ous, of  her  years  of  joy  and  labour.  Her  cottage  rent  had 
cost  her  forty  dollars,  her  clothes  nothing,  her  food  had  come 
largely  from  the  grateful  people.  Over  and  over  again  she 
returned  to  her  ridiculously  pitiful  calculations.  She  could 
live  for  one  hundred  dollars  a  year.  She  could  have  the  use 
of  a  deserted  schoolhouse,  free.  Two  hundred  dollars  would 
fit  up  a  tiny  hospital  and  lending-closet,  with  linen,  rubber 
articles,  simple  sick-room  conveniences.  If  she  had  five 
hundred,  she  would  start  on  that  and  trust  to  getting  help 
to  go  on  with.  She  could  stay  there  a  year,  then  nurse  for  a 
year,  and  go  back  with  the  money  she  had  saved. 

And  so  on,  and  so  on,  and  so  on!  The  floods  of  North 
Carolina  needs  that  swept  over  my  helpless  head  would  have 
drowned  a  stronger  brain  than  mine.  In  vain  I  tried  to  dam 
this  tide  of  confidences  and  hopes  and  ha'penny  economies: 
it  was  useless.  After  a  week,  during  which  actual  photo- 
graphs, hideous  blue  prints,  the  first  advance  guard  of  that 
flood  of  amateur  photography  destined  to  wash  over  the 
world,  were  brought  out  for  my  edification,  I  rebelled  and 
declared  myself  cured. 

"  And  to  get  rid  of  you,"  I  added  crossly,  "  I  am  going  to 
give  you  this,"  and  I  handed  her  her  weekly  cheque,  plus  a 
draft  for  a  hundred  pounds.  "  Take  it,  and  get  off  to  those 
benighted  natives,  for  heaven's  sake!" 

[174] 


HER   WEEKLY   CHECK,    PLUS    A    DRAFT    FOR    A   HUNDRED    POUNDS 


FATE    LANDS    ME   ON   THE    ROCKS 

She  stared  at  it,  at  me,  at  it  again,  then  choked  and  fled 
to  her  room.  I  felt  like  a  fool. 

Later,  when  I  saw  what  it  really  meant  to  the  absurd 
creature,  I  surreptitiously  copied  bits  of  the  sordid  little 
diary,  and  sent  them  to  Roger  with  a  slight  account  of  her, 
and  suggested  that  he  mention  this  matter  to  Sarah  (who 
had  recently  washed  her  hands  of  the  American  negro  on 
the  occasion  of  his  having  bitterly  disappointed  her  hopes  in 
a  brutal  race  riot)  and  give  that  philanthropist's  energies  a 
new  direction. 

I  saw  Harriet  off  to  her  boat,  tried  in  vain  to  get  a  half  hour 
of  rational  conversation  on  topics  unrelated  to  the  western 
mountains  of  North  Carolina,  agreed  hastily  to  all  directions 
as  to  my  health,  held  Kitch  up  to  be  kissed,  and  went  back 
to  my  sunny  garden-corner,  for  it  was  full  May  now,  and  my 
strength  was  growing  with  the  flowers. 

I  thought  that  chapter  ended,  and  was  startled  and  not  a 
little  shaken  by  the  thick  letter  that  found  me  planning  my 
lonely. summer  early  in  June.  It  was  from  Harriet,  a  curious, 
incoherent  screed;  tiresomely  detailed  as  to  her  plans,  pain- 
fully brief  as  to  important  issues.  She  had  found  a  letter 
from  Mr.  Bradley  awaiting  her  arrival,  she  had  followed  his 
suggestions  and  interested  Miss  Sarah  Bradley,  his  cousin, 
in  her  schemes,  with  the  result  that  the  Episcopal  organisa- 
tion had  sent  a  deaconess  for  a  year  to  work  under  Harriet's 
direction  and  a  contribution  toward  fitting  out  the  little 
hospital.  She  had  gone  to  see  Roger  and  thank  him  per- 
sonally and  found  him  on  an  island,  with  Mrs.  Bradley  in 
sudden  and  acute  need  of  both  nurse  and  physician,  the 
former  with  a  broken  leg,  the  latter  gone  to  New  York  for 
the  day,  as  his  prospective  patient  was  supposed  to  be  in  no 
immediate  need  of  him.  She  had  hastily  set  the  nurse's  leg, 
telegraphed  for  the  doctor,  then  devoted  herself  to  Mrs. 
Bradley,  who,  though  beautifully  strong  and  well,  developed 
sudden  complications  and  gave  her  quite  a  little  trouble. 
Things  were  rather  doubtful  and  hard  for  five  or  six  hours, 

[i7S] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


but  fortunately  the  doctor  had  left  full  supplies  for  the  oc- 
casion and  the  other  nurse  was  able  to  give  the  anaesthetic — 
she  was  dragged  on  a  sofa  by  a  deaf  and  dumb  man,  who  ran 
five  miles  to  the  village  just  before.  It  ended  triumphantly 
at  dawn  and  Mrs.  Bradley  had  a  lovely  little  girl — the  image 
of  her  father.  Both  were  doing  well. 

Mr.  Bradley  had  overestimated  her  services,  and  as  she 
could  not  dream  of  accepting  the  fee  he  offered  her,  he  had 
insisted  upon  paying  a  salary  for  three  years  to  a  young 
physician  (selected  by  the  doctor,  who  arrived  at  noon)  who 
was  to  give  his  entire  time  and  strength  to  the  mountain 
hospital  and  superintend  the  affair,  now  grown  into  a  real 
institution,  since  Mr.  Elder  had  volunteered  to  supply  a 
young  fellow  from  his  club,  anxious  to  act  as  orderly  and 
assistant  for  the  sake  of  the  training,  and  Mrs.  Paynter,  a 
friend  of  Mr.  Bradley's,  had  managed  to  get  a  full  dispen- 
sary supply  at  cost  prices  from  connections  of  hers  in  the 
wholesale  drug  line. 

"And  it  all  comes  from  you,  Mr.  Jerrolds,"  the  letter 
ended,  "all  owing  to  your  wonderful,  your  noble  interest,  in 
this  work!  You  told  Mr.  Bradley,  and  though  he  is  not 
justified  in  thinking  I  saved  her  life,  it  is  perfectly  true  that 
those  cases  give  us  a  great  deal  of  trouble  sometimes,  and 
I  was  very  fortunate  in  having  had  a  great  deal  of  maternity 
work  in  the  mountains,  when  I  had  to  act  all  alone  and  do 
rather  daring  things.  But  I  got  the  practice  there,  and  so 
if  I  did  save  your  friend's  life  (or  the  baby's,  which  is  nearer 
the  truth,  I  confess  to  you,  Mr.  Jerrolds!)  you  have  amply 
rewarded  the  cause  that  gave  me  the  training  to  do  what  I 
did! 

"Your  grateful 

"HARRIET  BUXTON." 

I  sat  under  the  glass-topped  wall,  the  letter  between  my 
knees,  staring  at  the  brick  walk  bordered  with  green  turf. 
How  strange  it  was,  how  incredibly  strange !    A  curious  sense 
[176] 


FATE   LANDS   ME    ON   THE   ROCKS 

of  watchful,  relentless  destiny  grew  in  me.  Truly  it  slum- 
bered not  nor  slept!  I,  who  had  cursed  that  child  unborn, 
had  reached  over  seas  and  helped  it  into  the  world !  I,  who 
had  been  jealous  of  my  friend,  had  sent  him  a  friend  indeed! 
I,  who  had  grudged  Margarita  husband  and  child  (for  in 
my  black,  cruel  fever  I  did  this)  had  given  her  back  to  both! 

I  pondered  these  things  long  (as  if  the  thread  in  the  tapes- 
try should  marvel  at  its  devious  windings)  and  then  sum- 
moned my  landlady. 

"Mrs.  Drabbit,"  said  I,  "I  am  thinking  of  going  to 
America." 


[i77] 


PART    SIX 

IN  WHICH  YOU  ARE  SHOWN  THE  RIVER'S  VERY 
SOURCES,   FAR   UNDERGROUND 


And  is  it  I  that  must  sit  and 

spin? 
And  is  it  I  that  my  hair 

must  bind  ? 
I   hear   but   the  great  seas 

rolling  in, 
I  see  but  the  great  gulls  sail 

the  wind. 


Who  sang  the  grey  monk  out  o'  the  cell  ? 

Who  but  my  mother  that  rode  the  sea! 
She  stole  a  son  o'  the  church  to  hell, 

And  out  of  hell  shall  the  church  steal  me? 

Sir  Hugh  and  the  Mermaiden. 


179] 


CHAPTER  XX 
A  GARDEN  GLIMPSE  OF  EDEN 

IT  was  mid-August,  however,  before  I  reached  that  part 
of  America  that  was  destined  to  mean  so  much  to  me.  A 
visit  to  Mrs.  Upgrove,  my  mother's  old  friend,  extended  itself 
beyond  my  plans,  largely  because  of  the  pleasant  acquaintance 
I  formed  there  with  her  son,  then  Captain,  now  Major 
Upgrove,  one  of  the  most  charming  men  I  have  ever  encoun- 
tered. Next  to  Roger  he  has  become  my  best  friend,  in- 
cidentally disproving  a  theory  of  mine  that  warm  friendships 
between  men  are  not  likely  to  be  formed  after  thirty.  Even 
as  I  write  this  chapter  I  am  looking  forward  to  his  visit,  and 
the  slim  Hawaiian  girls  are  looking  forward,  too,  I  promise 
you,  with  wonderful,  special  garlands,  and  smiles  that  many 
a  handsome  young  sailor  may  jingle  his  pockets  in  vain  to 
win! 

What  is  it,  that  strange,  lasting  charm  that  wins  every 
woman-thing  of  every  age  and  colour  ?  His  mother  told  me 
that  he  had  it  in  the  cradle,  that  the  nurses  were  jealous 
over  him  and  the  sweet-shop  women  put  his  pennies  back 
into  his  pockets!  Yes,  Lona,  and  yes,  Maiti,  the  silver- 
haired  Major  is  coming  surely,  and  you  shall  surely  dance! 
Never  mind  the  wreaths  for  me,  dear  hypocrites — they  were 
never  woven  for  bald  heads! 

It  was  warm,  almost  as  warm  as  this  languid,  creamy 
beach,  the  day  I  clambered,  none  too  agile,  over  the  thwarts 
of  Caliban's  boat  and  made  my  way  up  the  sandy  path  to 
the  cottage. 

"  I'm  afraid  the  fever  took  it  out  of  you,  Jerry,"  Roger  said, 

[181] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


looking  hard  at  me,  and  I  nodded  briefly  and  he  gripped 
my  hands  a  little  harder. 

"I'm  glad  you're  here,"  he  said. 

Through  the  dear  old  room  we  stepped  and  out  the  fur- 
ther door,  and  here  a  surprise  met  me.  The  straggling  grass 
stretch  was  now  a  rolling,  green-hedged  lawn,  quartered 
by  home-like  brick  paths.  Two  long  ells  had  been  added  to 
the  house,  running  at  right  angles  straight  out  from  it  at 
either  end,  making  a  charming  court  of  the  door  yard  and 
doubling  the  size  of  the  building;  the  fruit  trees  had  been 
pruned  and  tended;  an  old  grape  arbour  raised  and  trained 
into  a  quaint  sort  of  pergola,  a  strange  sight,  then,  in  America; 
a  beautiful  old  sun-dial  drowsed  in  a  tangle  of  nasturtiums. 
A  delicate,  dreamy  humming  led  my  eyes  to  a  group  of  bee- 
hives (always  dear  to  me  because  of  the  Miel  du  Chamounix 
and  our  happy,  sweet-toothed  boyhood!)  and  near  a  border 
of  poppies,  marigold  and  hardy  mignonette  a  great  hound 
lay,  vigilant  beside  a  large,  shallow  basket,  shaded  by  a 
gnarled  wistaria  clump.  The  basket  was  filled  with  some- 
thing white,  and  as  we  stood  in  the  door,  a  woman  dressed 
in  trailing  white,  with  knots  of  rich  blue  here  and  there,  came 
through  a  green  gate  in  the  side  hedge  and  moved  with  a 
rich,  swooping  step  toward  the  basket.  Behind  her  through 
the  open  gate  I  saw  a  further  lawn  white  with  drying  linen, 
and  a  quick,  pleasant  glimpse  of  a  brown,  broad  woman  in 
an  old-world  cap,  paring  fruit  under  an  apple  tree,  a  yellow 
cat  basking  at  her  feet. 

The  white-clad  figure  leaned  over  the  basket,  her  deep- 
brimmed  garden  hat  completely  shading  her  face,  lifted  from 
it  a  struggling,  tiny  doll-creature,  with  a  reddish-gold  aureole 
above  its  rosy  face,  dandled  it  a  moment  in  her  arms,  then 
sank  like  a  settling  gull  into  the  hollow  of  a  low  seat-shaped 
boulder  near  the  wistaria,  fumbled  a  moment  at  the  bosom 
of  her  lacy  gown,  and  while  I  held  my  breath,  before  I 
could  turn  my  eyes,  gave  it  her  breast.  It  pressed  its  wan- 
dering, blind  hands  into  that  miraculous,  ivory  globe  (that 
[182] 


A   GARDEN   GLIMPSE   OF   EDEN 

pattern  of  the  living  world)  and  through  the  dense,  warm 
stillness  of  that  garden  spot,  where  the  bees'  hum  was  the  very 
music  of  silence,  there  sounded,  so  gradually  that  I  could 
not  tell  when  the  first  notes  stirred  the  soundlessness,  a 
curious  cooing  and  gurgling,  a  sort  of  fluty  chuckle,  a  rippling, 
greedy  symphony.  It  was  not  one  voice,  for  below  the 
cheeping  treble  of  the  suckling  mite  ran  a  lowing  undertone, 
a  murmurous,  organ-like  music,  a  sort  of  maternal  fugue, 
that  imitated  and  dictated  at  once  that  formless,  elemental 
melody.  Even  as  we  stood  riveted  to  the  threshold,  the 
sounds  echoed  in  the  air  above  us,  seemed  to  descend 
mystically  from  the  very  heavens  themselves,  and  as  my 
heart  swelled  in  me,  a  flock  of  pigeons  swept  down  from  some 
barnyard  eyrie  and  dropped  musically,  in  a  cloud  of  grey  and 
amethyst,  beneath  the  pear  tree.  They  crooned  together 
there,  the  woman,  the  child  and  the  birds,  and  truly  it  was 
not  altogether  human,  that  harmony,  but  like  the  notes  of 
the  pure  and  healthy  animals  (or  the  angels,  may  be  ?)  that 
guard  this  living  world  from  the  fate  of  the  frozen  and 
exhausted  moon. 

"I — I  can't  get  used  to  it,"  said  Roger  abruptly,  "it — it 
seems  too  much,  somehow,"  and  we  turned  back  into  the 
room. 

"It's  not  a  bit  too  much  for  you,  Roger!"  I  answered 
heartily  (thank  God,  how  heartily!)  and  we  drew  deep 
breaths  and  welcomed  Miss  Jencks,  in  irreproachable 
white  duck — I  had  almost  written  white  ducks — and  talked 
about  my  momentous  health. 

Miss  Jencks  had  abandoned  her  seaman's  comforters  for 
a  cooler  form  of  handiwork,  suspiciously  tiny  in  shape,  but 
she  pursued  it  relentlessly  while  we  discussed  the  changes  in 
the  cottage;  the  gardens,  the  corn  and  asparagus  planned 
for  another  season;  the  ducks  quartered  near  the  fresh- 
water brook;  the  tiny  dairy  built  for  her  over  the  spring;  the 
brick- wall  for  Roger's  pet  wall  fruit;  the  piano  dragged 
by  oxen  from  the  village;  the  sail-boat,  manned  now  and 

[183] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


then  by  our  enthusiastic  telegrapher:    the  wondrous  size 
and  health  of  the  tiny  Mary. 

She  was  called,  as  one  who  knew  Roger  might  have  ex- 
pected, for  his  mother,  after  the  old  tradition,  too,  that  gave 
every  eldest  daughter  of  the  Bradleys  that  lovely  name.  No 
bitter  obstinacy,  no  unyielding  pride  of  Madam  Bradley's 
could  alter  in  his  calm  mind  the  course  of  his  duty,  and  I 
never  heard  a  harsh  word  from  him  concerning  the  matter. 
Margarita  cared  absolutely  nothing  about  it  and  never,  he 
told  me,  expressed  the  faintest  curiosity  as  to  his  family  or 
their  relations  with  her. 

Soon  she  was  with  us,  dear  and  beautiful,  with  only  a  tiny 
lavender  shadow  under  those  cloudy  eyes — misty  just  now 
and  a  little  empty,  with  that  placid  emptiness  of  the  nursing 
mother — to  mark  the  change  that  my  not-to-be-deceived  scru- 
tiny soon  discovered.  We  left  the  sleepy  Mary  slowly  patrol- 
ling the  brick  walks  in  a  pompous  perambulator  propelled 
by  a  motherly  English  nurse  under  Miss  Jencks's  watchful 
eye,  and  strolled,  in  our  customary  hand-in-hand,  to  the 
boat-house,  a  low,  artfully  concealed  structure,  all  but  hidden 
under  a  jagged  cliff,  and  faced  wherever  necessary  with 
rough  cobbled  sea-stones  sunk  in  wet  cement  and  hardened 
there.  The  right  wing  of  the  cottage  stood  out  unavoidably 
at  one  point  against  the  sky-line,  and  Roger,  who  had  devel- 
oped a  surprising  gift  of  architecture  and  a  sort  of  rough 
landscape  gardening,  was  planning  an  extension  of  the  arti- 
ficial sea-wall  to  cover  this. 

He  worked  at  this  himself,  drenched  with  sweat,  tugging 
at  the  stones,  while  Caliban  and  a  mason  from  the  village 
set  them  and  threw  sand  over  the  wet  plaster  (the  method 
which  we  decided  must  have  been  adopted  by  the  builder  of 
the  cottage),  and  I,  too  weak  yet  to  help  in  this  giant's  play, 
criticised  the  effect  from  a  rowboat  outside  the  lagoon,  tele- 
graphing messages  by  means  of  a  handkerchief  code.  Often 
Margarita  would  come  with  me,  embroidering  placidly  in 
the  bow  of  the  boat,  under  her  wide  hat.  She  detested  sew- 
[184] 


A   GARDEN   GLIMPSE   OF   EDEN 

ing,  and  refused  utterly  to  learn  any  form  of  it,  to  Miss 
Jencks's  sorrow,  but  had  invented  a  charming  fashion  of 
embroidery  for  herself  and  worked  fitfully  at  tiny  white 
butterflies  in  the  corner  of  my  cambric  handkerchiefs — the 
one  and  only  form  this  art  of  hers  ever  took.  It  became  a 
sort  of  emblem  and  insignia  of  her,  and  Whistler,  who  be- 
gan coming  to  them,  I  think,  the  year  after  that,  or  the  next, 
made  much  of  this  fanciful  bond  between  them.  It  was  she 
who  worked  the  black  butterfly  upon  the  lapel  of  his  even- 
ing coat  which  created  such  a  sensation  in  Paris  one  season. 
Once  while  shooting  in  the  Rockies  with  Upgrove,  six 
or  eight  years  ago,  I  pulled  out  an  old  buckskin  tobacco 
pouch,  turned  it  hopefully  inside  out  in  the  search  for  a 
stray  thimbleful,  and  discovered  in  a  corner  of  the  lining  a 
faded  yellow  silk  butterfly,  all  unknown  to  me  till  then!  She 
must  have  worked  it  surreptitiously,  like  a  mischievous, 
affectionate  child;  and  as  I  held  it  in  my  hands,  and  stared 
at  the  graceful  absurd  thing,  the  lonely  camp  faded  before 
me;  the  sizzling  bacon,  the  rough  shelter,  the  whistling 
guide,  slipped  back  into  some  inconsequential  past,  and  I 
lay  again  on  the  sun-warmed  rocks,  watching  a  yellow- 
headed  toddler  prying  damp  pebbles  from  the  beach,  to 
pile  them  later  in  her  tolerant  lap.  Oh,  Margarita!  Oh, 
the  happy  days' 


185] 


CHAPTER  XXI 

HESTER  PRYNNE'S  SECRET 

I  REMEMBER  so  well  the  morning  of  the  great  discovery. 
It  was  one  of  those  damp,  rainy,  grey  days  when  happy 
people  can  afford  to  realise  contentment  indoors,  and  we 
were  a  very  comfortable  group  indeed:  Margarita  sorting 
music,  Roger  drawing  plans  for  a  new  chimney,  Miss  Jencks 
shaking  a  coral  rattle  for  the  delectation  of  the  tiny  Mary,  who 
lay  in  her  shallow  basket  under  the  lee  of  the  great  spinning- 
wheel,  and  I  hugging  the  fire  and  watching  them.  I  con- 
sidered Roger's  reforms  in  the  matter  of  chimneys  too 
thorough-going  for  the  slender  frame  of  the  house  and  told 
him  so. 

"You'll  batter  the  thing  to  pieces,"  I  said,  "see  here!" 
and  lifting  my  stick,  which  I  had  been  poking  at  the  baby 
after  the  irrelevant  fashion  of  old  bachelor  friends,  I  hit  out 
aimlessly  at  the  side  of  the  fireplace  and  struck  one  of  the 
bricks  a  smart  blow  on  one  end.  It  turned  slightly  and 
slipped  out  of  its  place,  and  as  I  shouted  triumphantly  and 
pulled  it  away,  I  displaced  its  neighbour,  too,  and  poked 
scornfully  at  a  third.  This,  however,  was  firm  as  a  rock,  as 
well  as  all  the  others  near  it,  and  with  a  little  excited  suspicion 
of  something  to  come  I  put  my  hand  into  the  small,  square 
chamber  and  grasped  a  dusty,  oblong  box,  of  tin,  from  the 
feel  of  it. 

"  Roger! "  I  gasped,  "  look  here! " 

"Well,  well,"  he  answered  vaguely,  "don't  pull  the  place 
down  on  us,  Jerry,  that's  all!" 

"But  Mr.  Jerrolds  appears  to  have  discovered  a  secret 
[186] 


HESTER   PRYNNE'S   SECRET 

hiding-place,"  Miss  Jencks  explained  succinctly,  and  then 
they  both  stared  at  me  while  I  drew  out  from  a  good  arm's 
reach  a  tin  dispatch  box,  thick  with  dust,  a  foot  long  and 
half  as  wide.  I  wiped  the  dust  from  its  surface,  and  on  the 
cover  we  read  (for  Roger  and  Miss  Jencks  were  at  my  elbow 
now,  I  assure  you!)  written  neatly  with  some  sharp  instru- 
ment on  the  black  japanned  surface,  the  name  Lockwood 
Lee  Prynne.  With  shaking  fingers  I  lifted  the  lid,  which 
opened  readily,  then  recollecting  myself,  passed  the  box  to 
Roger.  He  glanced  curiously  at  Margarita,  but  she  was  ab- 
sorbed in  her  music  and  as  lost  to  us  as  a  contented  child. 
He  held  the  box  on  his  knees,  pushed  back  the  lid  completely 
and  lifted  the  top  paper  of  all  from  the  pile.  It  was  badly 
burned  at  the  edges,  as  were  the  packets  of  letters,  the 
columns  clipped  from  yellowed  newspapers,  the  legal- 
looking  paper  with  its  faded  seal  and  the  rough  drawings 
on  stained  water-colour  paper  that  lay  beneath  it.  It  re- 
quired no  highly  developed  imagination  to  infer  that  the 
contents  of  the  box  had  been  laid  on  the  fire,  to  be  snatched 
away  later. 

Miss  Jencks  and  I  were  frankly  on  tiptoe  with  excitement, 
but  old  Roger's  hand  was  steady  as  a  rock  as  he  unfolded  the 
stiff  yellow  parchment  and  spread  before  us  the  marriage 
certificate  of  Lockwood  Lee  Prynne  and  Maria  Teresa — 
alas,  the  shape  of  a  fatally  hot  coal  had  burned  through 
the  rest  of  the  name!  We  skipped  eagerly  to  the  next  place 
of  handwriting,  the  officiating  clergyman  and  the  parish — 
for  the  form  was  English — but  disappointment  waited  for 
us  there,  too,  for  the  same  coal  had  gone  through  two  thick- 
nesses of  the  folded  paper,  and  only  the  date,  Jan.  26,  186-, 
broke  the  expanse  of  print.  The  initials  of  one  witness 
"H.  L."  and  the  Christian  name  "Bertha,"  of  another,  had 
escaped  the  coal  on  the  third  fold,  and  that  was  all. 

Roger  drew  a  long  breath. 

"So  it's  Prynne,  after  all,"  he  said  quietly,  and  unfolded 
the  next  paper. 

[187] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


This  was  a  few  lines  of  writing  in  a  careful,  not-too-well- 
formed  hand,  on  a  leaf  torn  from  an  old  account-book,  to 
judge  from  the  rulings. 

"  Sept.  24,  186-.  The  child  was  born  at  four  this  morn- 
ing," it  said  abruptly.  "  It  may  not  live  and  she  can't  pos- 
sibly. The  Italian  woman  baptised  it  out  of  a  silver  bowl. 
It  is  a  dreadful  thing,  for  now  if  it  does  live  it  will  be  Romish, 
I  suppose,  but  he  said  to  let  her  have  her  way,  so  it  had  to  be. 
He  is  nearly  crazy.  He  will  kill  himself,  I  think.  He  knows 
she  must  die.  It  is  named  after  her  mother  and  an  outlandish 
lot  of  other  names  for  different  people.  As  soon  as  she  is  dead 
the  Italian  woman  is  going  back  to  Italy.  I  shall  never  leave 
him." 

The  leaf  was  folded  here  and  several  lines  badly  burned. 
At  the  bottom  of  the  leaf  I  could  just  make  out  one  more 
line. 

"  I  cannot  be  sorry  she  is  dying  if  I  burn  in  hell  for  it. 
Hester  Prynne." 

Roger  and  I  stared  at  each  other,  the  same  thought  in  our 
minds.  I  had  imagined  many  things  about  the  mysterious 
Hester,  but  never  that  she  bore  that  name,  as  a  matter  of 
simple  fact.  The  connection  with  Caliban  had  been  too 
much  for  my  overtrained  imagination,  and  heaven  knows 
what  baseless  theories  I  had  woven  around  what  was  at 
best  (or  worst)  a  mere  coincidence.  For  me  the  scarlet 
letter  had  flamed  upon  what  I  now  know  to  have  been  a 
blameless  breast,  and  in  my  excited  fancy  a  stormy  nature 
had  suffered  picturesque  remorse  where,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
only  a  deep  and  patient  devotion  had  endured  its  unre- 
corded martyrdom  of  love  unguessed  and  unreturned.  So 
much  for  Literature! 

Next  came  two  folded  half-columns  from  a  newspaper, 
one  containing  only  that  dreadful  list  of  the  dead  that  our 
mothers  read,  white-cheeked  and  dry-eyed,  in  the  war  time. 
Opposite  the  names  of  Col.  J.  Breckenridge  Lee  and  Lieut. 
J.  Breckenridge  Lee,  Jr.,  were  hasty,  blotted  crosses.  The 
[188] 


HESTER    PRYNNE'S   SECRET 

other  half-column,  cut  from  another  and  better  printed 
sheet,  recorded  with  a  terrible,  terse  clearness  the  shocking 
deaths  of  the  aged  Col.  J.  B.  Lee  and  his  son  Lieut.  J.  B.  Lee, 
Jr.,  of  the  Confederate  Army,  at  the  hand  of  his  son-in-law, 
Capt.  Lockwood  Prynne,  who  was  defending  an  encamp- 
ment of  the  Northern  forces  from  a  skirmishing  party  led  by 
the  rebel  officers.  Captain  Prynne  recognised  what  he  had 
done  as  the  young  lieutenant  caught  his  father  in  his  arms 
and  turned  to  stagger  back,  and  rushing  forward  had  en- 
deavoured to  drag  them  to  safety,  receiving  a  shot  himself 
that  shattered  his  arm,  wounding  him  severely.  His  re- 
covery was  doubtful. 

Under  our  sympathetic  eyes  the  old  tragedy  lived  again, 
the  crisp,  cruel  lines  seemed  printed  in  blood.  It  needed 
only  the  letter  that  lay  beneath  to  make  everything  clear. 

"Dear  Bob,"  the  letter  began  in  the  unmistakable  neat 
hand  we  had  read  on  the  top  of  the  box,  "  I  cannot  leave  you 
without  this  word.  I  cannot  explain — my  brain  is  on  fire, 
I  think — but  try  to  judge  with  lenience.  Blood-poisoning 
set  in,  and  my  father  died  in  hospital  last  week.  On  his 
dying  bed  I  swore  to  him  that  I  would  never  raise  my  hand 
against  his  country.  I  can't  repeat  all  he  said,  but  he's 
right,  Bob,  the  South  is  wrong!  Secession  is  wrong.  I 
brought  the  body  home,  but  mother  could  not  come  to  the 
funeral.  She  is  not  at  all  violent,  but  she  will  never  be  the 
same  again — she  didn't  know  me,  Bob.  I  can't  describe 
how  pitiful  she  is.  Uncle  James  was  her  twin  brother, 
you  know,  and  they  were  everything  to  each  other.  When 
we  heard  of  Fort  Sumter  she  was  nearly  wild,  and  I  promised 
her  with  my  hand  on  her  Bible  never  to  fight  the  South.  I 
meant  it  then — my  friends,  my  home  and  you  all.  But  I 
would  have  got  her  to  release  me  if  I  could.  But  she  couldn't 
release  me  now,  and  I  would  die  before  I  broke  that  promise, 
the  way  she  is  now.  I  can't  stay  here.  I  couldn't  look  any- 
body in  the  face.  I  wish  I  could  be  shot.  I  may  be,  yet. 
I  am  going  to  Italy  to  see  about  those  silk-worms  for  the 

[189] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


plantation,  that  father  was  interested  in.  The  war  can't 
last  much  longer  and  it  will  be  something  to  do.  Mother 
is  well  looked  after  and  I  can't  stay  in  this  country — it's  not 
decent.  Can  you  write  to  me,  Bob?  I  don't  ask  much — 
just  write  a  line.  What  could  I  do  ?  Write,  for  God's  sake. 

"LOCKWOOD  LEE  PRYNNE." 

Below  this  signature,  in  a  different  hand,  was  scrawled: 
"I  return  this  letter.    I  have  nothing  to  say. 

"R.  S.  L." 

Alas,  alas,  the  pity  of  it!  The  grey  moss  and  the  blue 
forget-me-nots  grow  together  now  over  many  a  nameless 
grave,  and  Northern  youth  and  Southern  maid  pull  daisy 
petals  beside  the  sunken  cannon  ball;  but  the  ancient  scar 
ploughed  deep,  and  old  records  like  this  have  heat  enough 
in  them  yet  to  sear  the  nerves  of  us  who  trembled,  maybe,  in 
the  womb,  when  those  black  lists  of  the  wounded  trembled 
in  our  mother's  hands. 

What  a  hideous  thing  it  is!  Can  any  bugle's  screaming 
cover  those  anguished  cries,  or  any  scarlet  stripes  soak  up 
the  spreading  blood?  Bullets  are  merciful,  my  brothers, 
beside  the  cruel  holes  they  pierce  in  hearts  they  never 
touched. 

Roger  laid  the  papers  and  letter  reverently  to  one  side,  and 
I,  who  had  been  reading  over  his  shoulder,  brushed  im- 
patiently at  my  eyes.  (I  was  not  entirely  a  well  man  yet, 
remember!)  Below  the  newspaper  lay  a  signed  deed, 
formally  conveying  a  parcel  of  twenty  acres  of  land,  carefully 
measured  and  described,  to  Lockwood  Lee  Prynne,  his 
heirs  and  assigns,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  legal  jargon.  This 
was  hardly  burned  at  all. 

Of  the  two  slim  packets  of  letters  one  was  badly  charred: 

parts  of  it  fell  away  in  Roger's  hands,  as  he  carefully  opened 

it.    I  cannot  transcribe  them  literally,  or  even  to  any  great 

length,  for  they  are  too  sad,  and  no  good  end  would  be 

[190] 


HESTER    PRYNNE'S   SECRET 

served  by  commemorating  to  what  extent  that  fierce  furnace 
of  the  Civil  War  burned  away  the  natural  ties  of  kindred  and 
neighbour  and  home.  Enough  that  the  few  remaining 
members  spared  out  of  what  must  have  been  a  small  family 
cut  Margarita's  father  definitely  off  from  them,  in  terms  no 
man  could  have  tried  with  any  self-respect  to  modify.  His 
father,  a  Northerner,  who  had  identified  himself  since  his 
Southern  marriage  with  his  wife's  interests  and  kinsfolk, 
had  lost  touch  with  his  own  people,  and  a  few  death  notices, 
slipped  in  among  the  letters,  seemed  to  point  to  an  almost 
complete  loneliness,  which  Roger  afterward  verified.  The 
other  packet  held  two  letters  only,  one  in  Italian  (which 
language  I  learned,  after  a  fashion,  in  order  to  read  it)  the 
other  in  French.  The  Italian  letter  was  not  only  scorched 
badly,  but  so  blistered — one  did  not  need  to  ask  how — that 
parts  were  quite  illegible.  The  writer,  a  man,  evidently,  a 
young  man,  probably,  conveyed  in  satire  so  keen,  a  contempt 
so  bitter,  a  hatred  so  remorseless,  that  it  was  difficult  to  be- 
lieve it  a  letter  from  a  brother  to  his  sister.  Beneath  the 
polished,  scornful  sentences — vitriol  to  a  tender  young  heart 
— surged  a  tempest  of  primitive  rage  that  thrust  one  back 
into  the  Renaissance,  with  its  daggers  and  its  smiles.  "Let 
me  tell  you,  then,  once  and  for  all"  ran  one  sentence,  break- 
ing out  fiercely,  "that  there  is  but  one  country  on  earth  which 
can  shelter  you  and  that  villain — his  own!  There  I  scorn  to 
put  my  foot  or  allow  the  foot  of  any  member  of  your  family,  but 
let  him  or  his  victim  leave  it — and  so  long  as  I  live  my  ven- 
geance shall  search  you  out  and  wipe  out  this  insult  to  my 
hmtse,  my  country  and  my  church!"  The  opening  page 
was  missing  and  the  last  one  was  badly  burned,  so  we  had 
absolutely  no  clue  as  to  the  family  name. 

Roger  and  I  puzzled  out  enough  of  it  to  gather  vaguely 
what  the  situation  must  have  been,  and  when  we  read  the 
second  letter  it  was  all  clear.  This  second  letter  was  burned 
and  blistered,  too,  but  its  simple,  naive  repetitions,  its  tender 
terror,  its  brave,  affectionate  persistence,  left  little,  even  in 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


their  fragmentary  condition,  for  us  to  guess.     I  will   give 
only  a  page  here  and  there. 

"/  have  tried  for  four  months  not  to  write,  bid  what  you 
told  me  last  has  proved  too  strong  for  me  and  I  must.  .  .  .  Oh, 
my  dear  one,  my  more  than  sister  in  this  world,  how  could 
you  have  been  permitted  this  deadly  sin?  It  may  be  I  shall  be 
damned  for  even  this  one  letter — my  only  one,  for  you  must 
not  write  again.  Sister  Lisabetta  suspects  me  already,  and 
asked  me  last  week  why  I  should  talk  with  the  baker's  daughter 
so  secretly  ?  So  if  she  brings  another  letter  I  shall  tell  her  to 
destroy  it.  Write  to  me  no  more." 

Ah,  now  we  knew!  Strange  indeed  was  the  blood  that 
ran  in  Margarita's  blue- veined  wrist!  No  light  and  fleeting 
passion  had  brought  her  into  this  world. 

*'.  .  .  .  When  I  remember  that  it  was  I  who  brought  you 
the  first  letter,  I  weep  for  hours.  God  forgive  me,  and  Our 
Lady,  but  I  thought  it  was  only  some  idle  nonsense  of  Sister 
Dolores — she  was  always  so  light,  Dolores!  They  have  sent 
her  back  to  Spain — /  know  you  loved  her  best!  Sister  Lis- 
abetta found  a  bit  of  your  gown  caught  on  the  cypress  tree. 
How  dared  you  risk  your  life  so?  I  swore  I  knew  nothing, 
nor  did  I,  about  what  she  asked  me.  The  Archbishop 
came.  .  .  ." 

I  think  I  see  the  little  figure  slipping  from  bough  to 
bough  under  the  stars,  the  odour  of  all  the  vineyards  is  in  my 
nostrils,  the  splashing  of  the  Convent  fountain  sounds  in 
my  ears! 

" ....  I  could  not  sleep  at  night  after  that  wicked  letter  of 
how  you  love  him — how  dare  you,  a  vowed  nun,  write  such 
sinful  words?  It  must  be,  as  they  say,  wrong  to  pray  for  you! 
Do  not  try  to  excuse  yourself  because  your  brother  devoted 
you  against  your  will — you  were  happy  till  he  climbed  the 
tree  and  saw  you!  Only  Satan  can  make  it  so  that  one  wicked 
look  between  the  eyes  should  make  a  man  and  woman  mad  for 
— /  will  not  remember  that  sinful  letter,  I  will  not!  Maria, 
thou  art  lost!" 
[192] 


HESTER   PRYNNE'S    SECRET 

And  so,  even  as  she  and  Roger  looked  and  could  not  look 
away  and  never  after  lost  each  other's  eyes,  even  so,  her 
mother  looked  at  her  lover  and  looking,  lost  (or  so  she 
thought)  her  soul!  The  wheel  turns  ever,  as  Alif  taught 
me. 

" .  .  .  .  What  good  can  such  a  marriage  do?  No  Catholic 
could  marry  you,  I  am  sure.  It  is  no  marriage.  Your  brother 
•wrote  you  the  truth.  I  do  not  wonder  that  you  will  never 
read  or  speak  an  Italian  word  again — you  have  disgraced 
Italy.  But  as  he  says,  you  are  no  true  Italian — your  English 
mother  and  her  Protestant  blood  has  made  this  horrible  thing 
possible.  Her  death  was  a  judgment  on  you." 

Oh,  these  cruel,  gentle  women!  And  on  these  breasts  we 
long  to  lay  our  heads! 

"..../  do  not  wonder  that  all  his  countrymen  are 
against  him,  and  that  he  must  live  alone  all  his  days.  Even 
in  that  wild  land  blasphemy  has  its  deserts,  then.  But  I  can- 
not help  being  glad  /or  you  that  his  kinswoman  will  be  your 
servant,  for  you  are  ill  fitted  to  grow  maize  with  the  painted 
savages,  ma  plus  douce!  But  how  strange  that  even  a  dis- 
tant relative  of  one  so  comme  il  faut  should  be  of  a  sort  to  do 
this! 

"  Alas,  I  talk  as  if  I  were  again  of  the  world!  If  Raoul 
had  not  died,  I  should  have  been.  .  .  ." 

Here  the  letter  was  blotted  beyond  recognition  for  a  whole, 
closely  written  page.  It  must  have  been  tender  here,  and  one 
sees  the  poor  Maria  fairly  kissing  it  to  pieces.  I  was  grate- 
ful to  the  writer. 

".  .  .  .  That  you  should  be  a  mother!  And  soon!  I 
cannot  comprehend  it.  My  head  swims.  Reverend  Mother 
dreamed  of  you  so,  suckling  it,  with  a  halo  around  your  head, 
and  she  awoke  in  terror  and  told  Sister  Lisabetta,  who  let  it  out. 
The  devil  put  it  into  her  dream,  to  tempt  her,  Sister  Lisabetta 
says,  for  she  was  always  too  fond  of  you.  She  fasted  three  days 
and  one  heard  her  groaning  in  the  night — she  was  as  white 
as  paper.  Oh,  Maria,  to  feel  it  at  one's  breast,  tugging  there! 

[193] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


/  think  I  am  going  mad.     Never  write  again,  for  I  shall  never 
read  it,  nor  know  if  it  is  born." 

Truly  God  permits  strange  things.  And  yet  celibacy  is  as 
old  as  civilisation,  and  the  Will  to  Live  has  denied  itself 
since  first  It  was  conscious.  It  cannot  be  pished  and 
pshawed  away,  by  you  or  me  or  another. 

"...  7  will  get  this  to  the  baker's  daughter,  and  then 
when  I  am  sure  it  is  gone,  I  will  confess  it  all,  and  whatever 
penance  Reverend  Mother  puts  upon  me,  I  shall  be  only  glad. 
It  may  be  I  shall  be  cut  off  from  Our  Blessed  Lord  longer  than 
I  can  bear,  and  then  I  shall  die,  but  I  think  I  shall  be  forgiven 
finally,  for  something  tells  me  so,  and  until  I  gave  you  the 
letter,  that  day  near  the  fountain,  I  cannot  think  of  any  very 
great  sin,  can  you,  Maria?  We  were  always  good,  we  three. 
But  now  I  am  alone,  for  they  will  never  let  Dolores  back.  She 
grew  so  thin — my  heart  ached  for  her. 

"Adieu,  adieu — I  have  tried  to  hate  you,  as  I  ought,  but 
your  grey  eyes  look  and  look  at  me  in  the  night,  and  I  feel  you 
tapping  my  fingers  as  you  used  to  do — oh,  if  they  will  let  me 
I  will  pray  for  you  every  day  till  I  die,  and  Our  Lady  will 
remember  that  you  were  always  good  until  he  looked  at  you! 

"  For  the  last  time — 

"  Your  Josephine." 

Under  this  letter  was  hidden  a  crude  little  sketch  of  the 
cloister-end  of  some  building  on  a  sheet  of  drawing-paper, 
and  near  it,  just  outside  a  high  wall,  a  fair  outline  of  a 
thick  cypress.  There  was  nothing  else  in  the  box. 

Nor  did  we  ever  learn  another  word  or  syllable  of  the  life 
of  those  two  in  their  lonely  cottage.  Whether  Prynne  built 
it  himself  or  hired  labourers  for  the  work  we  never  tried  to 
discover.  That  he  buried  himself  there  with  the  passion  of 
his  lonely  life,  that  these  flaming  lovers,  cast  off  by  God  and 
the  world,  thought  both  well  lost  for  what  they  found  in  each 
other,  who  can  doubt?  The  love  she  inspired  in  him  I 
can  understand,  for  I  have  known  her  daughter;  the  love 


HESTER   PRYNNE'S   SECRET 

he  woke  in  her,  she  being  what  she  was,  I  do  not  dare  to 
guess.  What  must  that  woman's  soul  have  been?  What 
storm  of  love  must  have  swept  her  from  her  cloister-harbour 
— and  on  to  what  rocks,  over  what  eternal  depths!  Deal 
gently  with  her,  Church  of  her  betrayal!  Forgive  her 
sins,  I  beg  you,  for  she  loved  much. 


[195] 


CHAPTER  XXII 
FATE  LAUGHS  AND  BAITS  HER  HOOK 

I  FIND  to  my  surprise  that  these  rambling  chapters,  in- 
tended, in  the  first  place,  as  a  sort  of  study  of  Margarita's 
development  under  the  shock  of  applied  civilisation,  have 
grown  rather  into  a  chronicle  of  family  history,  a  detail  of 
tiny  intimate  events  and  memories  that  must  surely  disap- 
point Dr.  M 1,  at  whose  urgent  instance  they  were  under- 
taken. Margarita  was,  indeed,  at  that  time,  a  fit  subject  for 
the  thoughtful  scientist,  and  hardly  one  of  her  conversations 
with  her  friends  but  would  serve  as  a  text  for  some  learned 
psychological  dissertation.  But  it  would  have  been  hard, 
even  for  a  stony  savant,  to  dissect  that  adorable  personality! 
The  points  that  I  had  intended  to  discuss  are  lost,  I  find, 
in  her  smile;  the  interest  of  her  relations  with  the  world,  as 
it  burst  upon  her  in  all  its  complications  and  problems,  a 
grown  woman,  but  ignorant  as  a  savage  and  innocent  as  a 
child,  is  as  nothing  beside  the  interest  of  her  relations  with 
us  who  formed  for  so  long  her  little  special  world.  However, 
I  cannot  offer  my  scientist  nor  his  distinguished  colleague, 

Professor  J s,  a  mere  tangle  of  personal  reminiscences, 

so  I  must  try  to  recall,  as  accurately  as  may  be,  the  circum- 
stances of  Margarita's  introduction  to  orthodox  Christianity. 
At  Miss  Jencks's  earnest  petition  Roger,  who  had  grown  really 
attached — as  had  we  all — to  the  good  creature,  had  finally 
yielded  and  allowed  her  to  impart  the  outline  of  the  New 
Testament  story  to  her  charge.  I  found  her  later,  a  moist 
handkerchief  crumpled  in  her  hand  and  a  tiny  worn  leather 
volume  on  her  lap. 
[196] 


FATE  LAUGHS  AND  BAITS  HER  HOOK 

"  It  didn't  do,  then  ? "  I  inquired  sympathetically,  for 
her  plain,  competent  face  was  more  disturbed  by  grief  than 
I  had  ever  seen  it. 

"  Mr.  Jerrolds,"  she  demanded  seriously,  "  do  you  think  she 
has  a  soul  ?  Of  course  that  is  wrong,"  she  added  hastily, 
"  and  I  should  not  say  such  a  thing,  but  do  you  know  she 
treats  it  just  like  any  other  story  ?  It  means  nothing  to  her. 
She  has  no  respect  for  the  most  sacred  things,  Mr.  Jerrolds! " 

"But  how  could  she  have,  dear  Miss  Jencks?"  I  urged 
gently.  "  They  are  not  sacred  to  her,  you  must  remember. 
She  is  what  you  would  call  a  heathen,  you  know." 

Miss  Jencks  folded  her  handkerchief  thoughtfully. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  began,  "but  think,  Mr.  Jerrolds, 
think  how  gladly,  how  gratefully  the  heathen  receive  the 
Gospel!  I  shall  never  forget  how  the  missionary  described 
it  that  dined  with  the  Governor- General  once.  It  was  in  Lent, 
I  remember,  and  the  poor  man  regretted  that  it  should  be, 
he  had  eaten  fish  so  steadily  in  the  Islands!  It  was  only 
necessary  for  him  to  tell  the  simple  Gospel  story,  and  it  won 
them  directly." 

I  bowed  silently — it  was  at  once  the  least  and  the  most 
that  I  could  do. 

"And  more  than  that,  Mr.  Jerrolds,"  the  good  woman 
continued,  unburdening  herself,  clearly,  of  the  results 
of  many  days  of  thought,  "look  at  those  wonderful 
conversions  in  the  slums!  Look  what  this  Salvation  Army 
is  doing!  The  Governor-General  used  to  say  they  were 
vulgar  and  that  it  was  all  claptrap,  but  that  never  seemed 
to  me  quite  fair.  We  must  have  left  something  undone, 

we  and  the  Dissenters,  Mr.  Jerrolds,  if  this  General  B h 

can  reach  people  we  have  lost.  Isn't  that  so?" 

To  this  I  agreed  heartily,  and  after  a  moment  she  went  on. 

"  Why,  the  roughest,  vilest  men  weep  like  children  when 
they  understand  Our  Lord's  sacrifice,  Mr.  Jerrolds,  and 
what  it  did  for  them,  and  surely  if  they,  thieves  and  drunk- 
ards and — and  worse,  can  be  so  touched,  Mrs.  Bradley.  .  ." 

[i97] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


"Perhaps,"  I  suggested  as  gently  as  I  could,  "it  is  just 
because  Mrs.  Bradley  is  neither  a  thief  nor  a  drunkard  nor 
worse,  dear  Miss  Jencks,  that  she  does  not  feel  the  neces- 
sity for  weeping.  The  emotionalism  of  the  convert  is  a 
curious  thing,  and  the  sense  of  sin  together  with  vague 
memories  of  that  Story,  connected  with  childhood  and  child- 
hood's innocence,  may  produce  a  state  of  mind  responsible 
for  a  great  deal  that  we  could  hardly  expect  from  Mrs. 
Bradley." 

"  But  we  are  all  sinners,  Mr.  Jerrolds ! "    Again  I  bowed. 

"  Surely  you  believe  this,  Mr.  Jerrolds?" 

"  I  should  not  care  for  the  task  of  convincing  Mrs.  Bradley 
of  it,"  I  replied  dexterously. 

"That  was  the  trouble,"  she  admitted  mournfully.  "I 
told  her  about  Adam  and  Eve,  but  she  said  that  whatever 
they  had  done  was  no  affair  of  hers,  and  it  could  not  be 
wrong  to  eat  apples,  anyway,  she  told  me,  they  were  so  good 
for  the  voice." 

I  choked  a  little  here. 

"She  is  very  literal,"  I  said  hastily,  "and  the  apple  has 
symbolised  discord  in  more  than  one  mythology." 

"  I  showed  her  that  beautiful  picture  of  the  Crucifixion," 
Miss  Jencks  added  in  a  low,  troubled  voice,  "and  do  you 
know,  Mr.  Jerrolds,  she  refused  to  look  at  it  or  hear  about 
it  as  soon  as  she  understood!  She  said  it  was  an  ugly 
story  and  the  picture  made  her  hands  cold.  She  said  it  could 
do  no  good  to  kill  anyone  because  she  had  done  wrong. 
'Religion  is  too  bloody,  Miss  Jencks,'  she  said.  'I  do  not 
think  I  like  it.  If  I  were  you  I  should  try  to  forget  it.'  Isn't 
it  terrible,  Mr.  Jerrolds?" 

Poor  Barbara  Jencks!  You  were  an  Englishwoman  and 
it  was  twenty  years  ago ! 

"Leave  thou  thy  sister  when  she  prays,"  says  the  poet, 
and  with  all  due  respect  for  his  presumable  nobility  of  in- 
tention, it  is  certainly  the  easiest  course  to  pursue!     I  left 
Miss  Jencks. 
[198] 


FATE  LAUGHS  AND  BAITS  HER  HOOK 

She  followed  me  a  little  later,  however,  and  told  me 
that  she  was  not  entirely  without  hopes,  for  Margarita  had 
been  greatly  taken  with  the  Revelation  of  St.  John  the 
Divine,  and  had  committed  to  memory  whole  chapters  of  it, 
with  incredible  rapidity,  saying  that  it  would  make  beautiful 
music.  That  very  evening  she  sang  it  to  us,  or  rather,  chanted 
it,  striking  chords  of  inexpressible  dignity  and  beauty  on  the 
piano — the  pure  Gregorian — by  way  of  accompaniment. 
It  was  impossible  that  she  could  have  heard  such  chords, 
for  she  had  never  attended  a  church  service  in  her  life  and 
such  intervals  formed  no  part  of  her  vocal  instruction. 

Afterward,  I  read  Ecclesiastes  to  her,  and  she  did  the  same 
thing  with  it,  saying  that  it  was  the  most  beautiful  thing 
she  had  ever  heard — she  did  not  care  for  Shakespeare,  by 
the  way,  then  or  later.  Tip  Elder  came  to  us  for  a  week 
at  that  time,  and  the  tears  stood  in  the  honest  fellow's  eyes 
as  Margarita,  her  head  thrown  back,  her  own  eyes  fixed 
and  sombre,  her  rich,  heart-shaking  voice  vibrating  like  a 
tolling  bell,  sent  out  to  us  in  her  lovely,  clear-cut  enuncia- 
tion the  preacher's  warning. 

Remember  now  thy  Creator  in  the  days  of  thy  youth,  while 
the  evil  days  come  not.  .  .  . 

Oh,  the  poetry  of  it,  the  ageless  beauty! 

Or  ever  the  silver  cord  be  loosed,  or  the  golden  bowl  be 
broken.  .  .  . 

Her  voice  was  grave,  like  a  boy's,  and  yet  how  rich  with 
subtle  promises!  It  was  mellow,  like  a  woman's,  but  not 

mellow  from  bruising — the  only  way,  Mme.  M i  told 

me  once.  Those  poor  women! 

Then  shall  the  dust  return  to  the  earth  as  it  was:  and  the 
spirit  shall  return  unto  God  who  gave  it. 

I  can  see  her  now  .  .  .  there  are  those,  I  know,  who  have 
guessed  my  poor  secret,  and  who  wonder  that  I  do  not  "  con- 
sole myseif,"  in  the  silly  phrase  of  the  day.  How  could  I? 
The  twitter  of  the  Hawaiian  girls  is  like  that  of  the  beach- 
birds  in  my  ears,  after  that  golden-ivory  voice! 

1*99] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


It  was  in  October,  I  think,  that  she  began  to  grow  restless. 
Roger  was  full  of  plans  for  the  coming  winter,  and  had  even 
gone  so  far  as  to  all  but  complete  the  formalities  of  renting  a 
house  in  New  York,  when  she  startled  us  all  by  inquiring 
of  me  when  I  intended  to  start  for  Italy. 

"  For  I  am  coming  with  you,"  she  concluded  placidly. 

"  I'm  afraid  not,  cherie,"  said  Roger,  "  I  must  get  to  work, 
you  know.  You  can  take  lessons  in  New  York,  all  you  want." 

"But  I  do  not  care  to  go  to  New  York,"  she  returned 
quietly.  "  I  like  Paris  better.  I  need  not  nurse  the  baby, 
now,  and  I  can  sing  a  great  deal.  Jerry  can  take  me." 

"  Mr.  Bradley  means  he  must  be  in  New  York  to  continue 
his  professional  career,  dear  Mrs.  Bradley,"  Miss  Jencks 
interposed,  "and  you  must  go  with  him,  of  course." 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Margarita. 

"Because  a  wife's  place  is  by  her  husband,"  said  Miss 
Jencks,  after  a  pause  which  neither  Roger  nor  I  volunteered 
to  fill 

"But  why?"  Margarita  inquired  again.  "7  cannot  do 
Roger's  pro — professional  career!" 

"No,  my  dear,  but  you  can  help  him  greatly  in  it,"  Miss 
Jencks  instructed  placidly  (she  was  invaluable,  was  Barbara, 
when  it  was  a  matter  of  proper  platitude,  which  flowed 
form  her  lips  with  the  ease  of  water  from  a  tap — and  she 
believed  it,  too!)  "a  man  needs  a  woman  in  his  home. 
Her  influence — " 

"  Yes,  I  know,  you  have  told  me  that  before.  But  you 
could  stay  with  Roger,  Miss  Jencks,  and  be  that  influence," 
said  Margarita  sweetly,  "  and  I  could  go  with  Jerry."  Was 
she  impish,  or  only  ingenuous,  I  wonder  ?  One  could  never 
tell. 

"  How  about  the  baby  ?  "    Roger  demanded  cheerfully. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  nurse  it  any  more,"  said  the  mother  of 
little  Mary  quietly.    "  Madame  said  I  had  better  stop  it  now 
— it  will  be  better  for  my  voice.    So  it  will  not  need  me. 
Dolledge  knows  all  about  taking  care  of  it." 
[  200] 


FATE  LAUGHS  AND  BAITS  HER  HOOK 

"  But,  my  dear,  are  you  sure  it  will  be  good  for  Mary  not  to 
nurse  her?  She  is  not  six  months  old,  you  know,"  Miss 
Jencks  suggested  mildly. 

Margarita  leaned  her  round  chin  into  the  cup  of  her  hands 
and  gazed  thoughtfully  at  her  mentor. 

"  Then  why  do  you  not  nurse  her,  dear  Miss  Jencks  ? " 
she  asked. 

At  this  Roger  and  I  left  the  room  hastily.  I  am  unable 
to  state  what  the  late  directress  of  the  Governor-General's 
family  said  or  did! 

It  was  the  next  day,  I  remember,  that  I  was  called  to 
New  York  on  business  connected  with  my  mother's  small 
affairs,  and  while  there  I  was  greatly  surprised  and  not  a 
little  amused  to  receive  a  telegram  from  Roger  asking  me 
to  engage  passage  for  himself,  Margarita,  Miss  Jencks, 
Dolledge  and  the  baby,  on  my  own  boat,  if  possible,  if  not, 
to  change  my  sailing  to  fit  theirs.  It  is  only  fair  to  say  that 
Sears,  Bradley  and  Sears  had  recently  become  involved  in 
a  complicated  lawsuit  of  international  interests  and  im- 
portance, and  Roger  took  some  pains  to  inform  me  of  the 
very  handsome  retaining-fee  which  his  knowledge  of  the 
workings  of  English  law  combined  with  his  proficiency  in 
French  quite  justified  him  in  accepting  in  consideration  of 
his  giving  the  greater  part  of  his  time  to  this  case — a  case 
almost  certain  to  drag  through  the  winter  and  require  his 
presence  in  London  and  his  constant  correspondence  with 
Paris. 

I  received  this  information  as  gravely  as  he  offered  it,  but, 
to  use  his  own  phrase,  I  reserved  my  decision  as  to  whether 
the  lack  of  that  same  international  case  would  have  kept 
the  Bradley  menage  in  New  York. 

I  stayed  in  Paris  long  enough  to  see  Margarita  and  wee 
Mary,  with  their  respective  guardians,  installed  comfortably 
and  charmingly  in  the  Rue  Marboeuf,  bade  Roger  god- 
speed across  the  Channel  (I  could  tell  from  the  set  of  his 

[201] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


shoulders  how  he  would  plunge  into  the  work  there  and  how 
well-earned  would  be  his  flying  trips  Parisward!)  and  then 
struck  south  into  Italy,  bent  on  a  private  errand  of  my 
own. 

This  was  nothing  less  than  the  tracing,  if  possible,  of 
Margarita's  Italian  ancestry,  a  mission,  needless  to  say, 
laid  upon  me  by  no  one,  as  she  knew  nothing  of  this  and 
Roger,  apparently,  cared  less.  My  reasons  for  undertaking 
this  search,  which  I  weh1  knew  might  prove  endless  and  was 
almost  sure  to  be  long,  were  a  little  obscure,  even  to  myself, 
but  I  now  believe  them  to  have  sprung  principally  from  my 
smouldering  rage  against  Sarah  Bradley  and  her  ugly  insin- 
uations— a  subject  I  have  not  dwelt  upon  in  this  narrative. 
But  I  have  thought  much  of  it,  and  I  believe  now  that  my  vow 
was  registered  from  the  hour  of  the  finding  of  the  dispatch 
box  which  solved  one-half  of  the  problem. 

Sue  Paynter  was  of  great  assistance  to  me  here,  and  by 
judicious  questionings  of  Mother  Bradley  at  the  Convent 
and  artless  suggestions  and  allusions  when  with  the 
other  good  nuns,  to  whom  she  was  honestly  attached  and 
whom  she  often  visited,  she  actually  procured  for  me  a  few 
vague  clues,  breathless  rumours  of  those  tragedies  that  rear, 
now  and  then,  their  jagged,  warning  heads  above  the  smooth 
pools  of  cloister  life.  News  travels  fast  and  far  among  those 
quiet  retreats;  some  system  of  mysterious  telegraphy  links 
Rome  and  Quebec  and  New  York,  and  it  was  not  without 
the  name  of  a  tiny  town  or  two  tucked  away  in  my  mind 
and  at  least  three  noble  families  jotted  down  on  the 
inside  cover  of  my  bank-book  that  I  started  on  my  wild- 
goose  chase. 

They  were,  however,  quite  useless.  Two  of  the  noble 
families  had  held  no  greater  sinner  than  a  postulant  whose 
ardour  had  cooled  during  her  novitiate,  and  the  third  had  paid 
for  what  was  at  best  (or  worst)  a  slight  indiscretion  with  a 
broken  spirit  and  rapidly  failing  health.  It  required  no 
great  exercise  of  detective  powers  to  beg  the  genial  little 
[  202  ] 


FATE  LAUGHS  AND  BAITS  HER  HOOK 

doctor  of  each  tiny  neighbourhood  for  Italian  lessons  and  I 
learned  more  than  his  language  from  each.  They  were  veri- 
table hoards  of  gossip  and  information  of  all  sorts,  and  my 
ever  ready  and  unsuspected  note-book  held  more  than  verb- 
contractions  and  strange  vagaries  of  local  idiom. 

It  was  from  none  of  these,  however,  that  I  got  my  first 
clue,  but  from  the  boatman  who  took  me  out  at  sunset  for 
the  idle,  lovely  hour  that  I  love  best  in  Italy  and  which  her 
name  always  brings  beforem  e.  Rafaello  was  a  big,  burned 
creature,  beautiful  as  Antinous  and  as  simple  and  faithful  as 
a  dog.  He  took  a  huge  delight  in  teaching  me  all  the  quaint 
terms  of  his  fisher  dialect,  and  many  a  deep  argument 
have  we  held,  I  gazing  into  the  burning  sulphur  of  the  clouds, 
he  with  mobile  features  flashing  and  classic  brown  fingers 
never  still,  while  he  expounded  to  me  his  strange,  half  pagan, 
half  Christian  fatalism.  He  was  of  the  South,  "  well  toward 
the  Boot  Heel,  signore,"  but  Love,  the  master  mariner, 
had  driven  him  out  of  his  course  and  brought  him  within 
fifty  miles  of  Rome  to  court  a  fickle  beauty  of  the  hills,  whose 
brother  had  come  down  for  the  wood-cutting  and  was 
friendly  to  his  suit. 

"These  marsh  people  are  a  poor  sort,"  said  Rafaello 
contemptuously.  "  Not  that  I  would  take  a  wife  from  them, 
God  forbid!  Here  they  have  great  tracts,  with  buffalo  and 
wild  pig — yes,  I  have  seen  them  myself,  rooting  through 
the  wild  oak — but  have  they  the  brains  to  invite  the  foreign 
signori  to  hunt  there  and  earn  fortunes  by  it?  No.  Have 
they  even  strength  to  cut  their  own  timber?  Again,  no. 
They  lie  and  shiver  with  malaria.  Not  that  they  are  not  a 
little  better  now,"  he  admitted,  shifting  the  sail  so  that  we 
looked  toward  the  headlands  of  Sardinia,  a  cloud  of  lateens 
drifting  like  gnats  between,  "  now  they  are  ploughing  on  the 
plains,  the  boats  are  out,  the  bullocks  are  busy,  and  the 
wind  is  putting  a  little  strength  into  the  poor  creatures. 
I  swear  the  best  man  among  them  is  an  old  woman  I  took 
across  in  my  felucca,  to  pleasure  my  girl's  brother — she 

[203] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


tended  him  once  when  he  chopped  through  his  foot  near  her 
hut  just  on  the  edge  of  the  hills.  Seventy  years,  or  nearly, 
and  tough  and  wiry  yet,  and  can  help  neatly  with  a  boat. 
And  money  laid  by,  too,  but  is  she  idle?  Never.  She  spins 
her  hemp  and  weaves  osiers  into  baskets  and  changes  them 
for  goats'  hams.  That  with  polenta  keeps  her  all  winter — and 
well,  too.  She  is  very  close.  The  money,  no  one  knows 
where  it  came  from." 

Thus  Raf  aello  babbled  on,  steering  cleverly  and  suddenly 
into  one  of  the  vast,  unhealthy  lagoons  that  shelter  so  many 
of  the  winged  winter  visitors  of  Italy — visitors  unrecorded 
in  the  hotels,  unnoted  by  the  guides,  but  of  greater  inter- 
est than  many  tourists. 

I,  listening  idly  to  him,  caught  my  breath  at  the  flight  of 
flaming,  rosy  flamingoes  that  lighted  inland,  just  beyond 
us,  miracles  of  flower-like  beauty. 

"  From  Egypt,  excellent:  They  are  not  due  till  Novem- 
ber, but  the  winter  will  be  cold  and  they  started  early.  In 
March  they  will  start  back.  Why  ?  How  should  I  know  ? 
Who  sends  the  wild  duck,  for  that  matter?  I  have  seen  a 
half-mile  of  them  at  one  flight  bound  for  this  place.  It  may 
be  the  good  God  warns  them  and  they  go." 

"It  may  be,  Rafaello." 

"  But  then,  excellent,  does  he  send  the  brown  water-hens, 
too,  and  if  so,  why  not  tell  them  of  the  young  nobleman  whom 
I  brought  here  to  shoot  only  last  week  ?  Is  it  likely  God  did 
not  know  I  would  bring  him  ?  Of  course  not." 

"Perhaps  they  know,  but  must  go,  nevertheless,"  I 
ventured,  and  we  were  silent  and  thoughtful.  Did  they? 
Did  they  fly,  helpless,  to  their  death,  bound  by  some  fatal 
certainty  ?  Was  Alif  right,  and  is  it  written  for  us  all  ? 

"That  young  Roman  was  very  generous,"  Rafaello  re- 
sumed after  a  while.  "  A  few  more  like  him,  and  she  will 
think  twice  before  she  refuses  again.  How  I  bear  it,  I  can't 
tell.  Pettish  she  is,  certainly,  but  oh,  signore,  lovely,  lovely, 
like  un  angiolin1!  It  was  from  a  nobleman — a  foreigner, 
[204] 


SUE  SPINS  HER  HEMP  AND   WEAVES  OSIERS  INTO  BASKETS  AND  CHANGES 
THEM   FOR   GOATS'    HAMS 


FATE  LAUGHS  AND  BAITS  HER  HOOK 

anyway,  I  suppose  it  is  all  one — that  old  'Cina  got  her 
money,  Lippo  thinks.  He  hunted,  too,  Lippo  says,  and 
'Cina's  brother  waited  on  him — he  came  from  these  parts. 
He  took  her  brother  north  with  him  afterward,  and  well  he 
did,  too,  for  not  many  good  Catholics  would  help  him  in 
what  he  did,  and  that  brother  was  wicked  enough,  I  suppose. 
She  has  little  enough  religion  herself,  the  old  woman — 
they  say  her  money  is  for  making  peace  with  the  church. 
For  when  it  comes  to  the  last  rattle  in  the  throat, 
excellent,  the  boldest  is  glad  of  a  little  help,"  said  Rafaello 
knowingly. 

Night  was  on  us  now,  and  I,  well  knowing  that  the  air 
was  poisonous  for  me,  could  not  bring  myself  to  order  the 
boat  home.  There,  while  Perseus  burned  above  us  and  off 
toward  Rome  Orion  hung  steady  as  a  lamp  in  a  shrine,  I 
lost  myself  in  strange,  deep  thinking,  and  the  marshes  were 
the  desert  for  me  and  Alif  and  Rafaello  were  the  same,  and  I 
— who  was  I  ?  What  was  I  ? 

"The  signore  sleeps?"  the  man  inquired  timidly.  "I 
think  it  is  not  good  to  sleep  here.  Shall  we  go  back  ?  " 

"I'm  not  sleeping,  Rafaello,  but  I  suppose  we'd  better 
turn.  I  heard  all  you  said.  And  what  had  this  wicked 
foreigner  done?" 

"He  stole  a  nun  out  of  a  holy  convent,  excellenz',"  said 
Rafaello  in  a  low  voice. 

I  felt  my  heart  jump. 

"  Near  here  ? "  I  asked,  as  carelessly  as  I  could. 

"Oh,  no,  far  away — I  do  not  know.  Nobody  knows. 
It  was  only  'Cina  and  his  sister  came  from  here.  Mother  of 
God,  does  the  signore  think  any  woman  born  hereabouts 
would  have  blood  enough  for  that?  Look  you,  signore, 
she  climbed  down  a  tree  and  went  with  him  in  the  night! 
A  professed  nun!  Oh,  no  doubt  she  is  burning  now,  that 
one!  For  no  woman  need  take  the  veil,  that  is  plain, 
but  once  taken,  one  is  as  good  as  married  to  God 
himself,  and  then  to  take  a  man  after!  Oh,  no.  She 

[205] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


is    certainly   burning,"  concluded    Rafaello    with    simple 
conviction. 

"  But  I  thought  you  said  she  was  alive  and  made  baskets," 
I  said,  persistently  stupid. 

"No,  no,  the  signore  misunderstands.  That  is  'Cina, 
who  went  with  her  when  they  sailed  away,  being  sent  for 
by  her  brother.  The  wicked  one  died,  of  course,  and  'Cina 
came  back  with  all  the  money.  She  nearly  died,  herself,  on 
the  great  ship.  She  ate  nothing — not  a  bite  nor  a  scrap — 
for  four  days,  she  was  so  sick." 

"  He  was  an  Englishman,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  No.  From  the  signore' 's  country.  Not,  of  course,  that 
they  are  all  like  that,"  Rafaello  added  politely,  "but  the 
truth  must  be  told,  he  was." 

Now  it  was  that  my  studies  in  Italian  temperament  came 
to  my  assistance  quite  as  strongly  as  my  knowledge  of  the 
rough  fisher  patois.  The  Italian  must  not  be  questioned 
nor  know  that  anything  of  interest  or  importance  hangs  on 
his  answer.  Even  as  the  Oriental  he  must  be  handled 
guilefully,  and  it  was  with  a  guileful  yawn  that  I  dismissed 
the  subject. 

"It  takes  an  Italian  to  believe  that  wild  story,  Rafaello," 
I  said.  "  I'm  afraid  your  old  'Cina  was  teasing  Lippo.  It 
all  sounds  fishy  to  me.  Are  we  nearly  in  ?  I  feel  cold." 

"  Indeed  no,  signore,  it  is  the  truth.  (We  shall  be  in  in 
eight  minutes  by  the  signore's  watch.)  'Cina  will  never 
again  speak  to  an  Englishman  or — or  one  from  the  signore's 
country.  It  is  a  vow.  She  would  die  first.  Lippo  got  a 
chance  for  her  to  stand  at  her  spinning  for  a  crazy  English- 
man to  paint  in  a  picture — good  money  for  it,  too! — and  she 
spat  in  his  face.  Perhaps  the  signore  will  believe  that?" 

Again  I  yawned. 

"Those  stories  mean  nothing,"  I  said,  quivering  with 

impatience.    "  They  are  but  as  old  legends  without  names — 

and  dates  and  places.     Old  women  like  'Cina  never  can 

give  those  names  and  dates  and  places.    They  do  not  know 

[206] 


FATE  LAUGHS  AND  BAITS  HER  HOOK 

if  it  was  ten  or  twenty  or  fifty  years  ago,  nor  if  the  man  were 
Austrian  or  English,  or  the  woman  Italian  or  French  or 
Spanish.  Pin  them  down,  and  they  begin  to  make  excuses. 
But  I  don't  know  why  we  discuss  it — it  is  not  very  interest- 
ing, even  if  it  is  true.  Nevertheless,  and  because  you  seem 
offended,  Rafaello,  and  I  merely  want  to  show  you  that  I 
am  right,  I  will  cheerfully  give  a  good  English  sovereign  to 
you  or  Lippo  or  the  old  woman  herself,  if  she  can  so  much  as 
tell  you  the  name  of  this  famous  nun  and  the  name  of  her 
seducer.  You  will  find  she  cannot,  and  then,  since  I  am 
willing  to  wager  something,  you  must  take  me  for  a  fishing- 
trip  free  a  whole  day,  in  the  felucca.  Is  it  a  bargain  ?  " 

His  teeth  gleamed  as  he  swore  it  was  a  bargain  and  I 
watched  him  bustle  off  from  the  quay  with  an  excitement  I 
had  not  felt  since  my  recovery.  What  would  he  discover — 
for  that  he  would  discover  something  I  did  not  Idoubt.  What 
was  Margarita's  mother?  Some  fisher  girl,  whose  father 
had  won  an  English  lady's-maid  with  his  flashing  smile? 
Some  little  shopkeeper's  daughter?  Child,  perhaps,  of 
some  sprig  of  nobility,  caught  by  a  pair  of  cool,  grey  English 
eyes  ?  I  did  not  know,  but  I  felt  certain  that  the  old  'Cina 
did. 

I  cannot  linger  too  long  over  this  part  of  my  story,  drawn 
out  already  far  beyond  my  idle  scheme,  and  enough  is  said 
when  I  tell  you  that  the  name  brought  me  by  the  childishly 
triumphant  Rafaello  opened  my  eyes  and  pursed  my  lips 
into  an  amazed  whistle. 

Our  little  Margarita !  Here  was  something  to  startle  even 
steady  old  Roger.  Only  a  few  names  in  Italy  are  worthy 
to  stand  beside  the  splendid  if  impoverished  House  forced 
by  pride  to  place  its  unwedded  (because  undowered)  daugh- 
ter in  the  convent  that  needs  no  dot.  Obscure  in  financial 
realms  alone,  it  required  little  search  to  put  my  finger  on 
the  epitaph  of  that  brother  of  the  cruel  letter  (a  Cardinal 
before  his  death),  on  the  father's  pictured  cruel  face — he 
scorned  to  eat  with  the  mushroom  Romanoffs! — on  the 

[207] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


carved  door-posts  where  Emperors  had  entered  in  the  great 
Italian  days,  even  on  the  gorgeous  sculptured  mantel-piece 
sold  by  Margarita's  grandfather,  an  impetuous  younger 
brother  at  the  time  of  his  mad  marriage  with  an  English 
beauty,  whirled  from  the  stage,  whose  brightest  ornament 
contemporary  record  believed  she  was  destined  to  become, 
had  he  not  literally  carried  her,  panting,  from  the  scene  of 
her  first  triumph. 

Some  idea  of  the  relentless  iron  hands  that  tamed  that 
brilliant,  baffled  creature — and  hers  was  the  only  strain  in 
Margarita  that  genius  need  be  called  on  to  vindicate! — I 
won  from  the  old  caretaker,  a  family  retainer,  who  showed 
me,  on  a  proper  day,  over  the  gloomy,  faded  glories  of  the 
musty  palace.  She  was  always  heretic  at  heart,  the  old 
gossip  mumbled,  with  furtive  glances  from  my  gold  piece 
to  the  pictured  lords  above  her,  as  if  afraid  they  would  re- 
venge themselves  for  this  tittle-tattle,  heretic  and  light.  A 
servant  or  a  duke,  a  flower-seller  or  His  Eminence,  all  was 
one  to  her  crazy  English  notions.  And  the  truth — how 
the  mad  creature  told  it!  Blurted  it  out  to  everyone,  so 
that  they  had  to  keep  her  shut  up,  finally.  And  would  have 
her  dogs  about  her — eating  like  Christians!  And  no  money, 
when  all  was  said.  Her  children?  Four  sons,  all  dead 
now,  and  their  souls  with  Christ — one,  of  the  Sacred  College. 
Never  a  generation  without  the  red  hat,  thank  God.  No 
daughters.  Not  so  much  as  one?  Why  should  there  be? 
Some  were  spared  daughters,  when  there  was  no  money, 
and  a  blessing,  too. 

What  figure  had  been  cut  jrom  that  group  of  four  youths, 
cut  so  that  a  small  hand  that  grasped  a  cup-and-ball  showed 
plainly  against  one  brother's  sleeve?  She  did  not  know — 
how  should  she?  Perhaps  a  cousin.  It  was  painted  by  a 
famous  Englishman  and  kept  because  it  might  bring  money 
some  day.  Then  why  cut  it?  How  should  she  know? 
There  were  no  daughters  and  the  hour  was  up.  Would  the 
signore  follow  her? 
[208] 


THE   GLOOMY,   FADED   GLORIES   OF  THE   MUSTY   PALACE 


FATE  LAUGHS  AND  BAITS  HER  HOOK 

And  Sarah  was  alarmed  for  the  Bradley  blood!  Sarah 
feared  for  the  pollution  of  that  sacred  fluid  derived  from  Eng- 
lish yeomen  (at  best),  filtered  through  the  middle-class  ex- 
patriates of  a  nation  itself  hopelessly  middle  class  beside 
the  pure  strain  of  a  race  of  kings  that  was  old  and  majes- 
tically forgotten  ere  Romulus  was  dreamed  of!  Back, 
back  through  those  mysterious  Etruscans,  back  to  the  very 
gods  themselves,  an  absolutely  unbroken  line,  stretched 
the  forefathers  of  Margarita.  Long  before  Bethlehem  meant 
more  than  any  other  obscure  village,  long  before  its  Mystic 
Babe  began  there  his  Stations  of  the  Cross  and  brought  to 
an  end  at  Calvary  the  sacrifice  that  sent  his  agents  overseas 
to  civilise  the  savage  Britons  and  make  those  middle-class 
yeomen  possible,  Margarita's  ancestors  had  forgotten  more 
gods  than  these  agents  displaced  and  had  long  ceased  their 
own  bloody  and  nameless  sacrifices  to  an  elder  Jupiter 
than  ever  Paul  knew.  Etruscan  galleys  swarmed  the  sea, 
Etruscan  bronze  and  gold  were  weaving  into  lovely  lines, 
Etruscan  bowls  were  lifted  to  luxurious  and  lovely  lips  at 
sumptuous  feasts,  in  a  gorgeous  ritual,  before  the  natives 
of  a  certain  foggy  island  had  advanced  to  blue-woad  decora- 
tion! Her  people's  tombs  lie  calm  and  contemptuous  under 
the  loose,  friable  soil  of  that  tragic  land  that  has  suffered 
Roman,  Persian  and  Goth  alike  (wilt  thou  ever  rise  up  again, 
O  Mater  Dolorosa  ?  Is  the  circle  nearly  complete  ?  Would 
that  I  might  see  thee  in  the  rising!)  they  lie,  too,  under  the 
angular  and  reclining  forms  of  many  a  British  spinster 
tourist,  panoplied  in  Baedeker  and  stout-soled  boots,  large  of 
tooth  and  long  of  limb,  eating  her  sandwiches  over  the  cool 
and  placid  vaults  where  the  stone  seats  and  biers,  the  black 
and  red  pottery,  the  inimitable  golden  jewelry,  the  casques 
and  shields  of  gold,  the  ivory  and  enamel,  the  amber  and 
the  amulets,  lie  waiting  the  inevitable  Teutonic  antiquary. 
The  very  ashes  of  the  great  Lucomo  prince  and  chieftain 
lying  below  this  worthy  if  somewhat  unseductive  female 
would  fade  in  horror  away  into  the  air,  if  one  of  his  gods, 

[209] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


Vertumnus,  perhaps,  or  one  of  the  blessed  Dioscuri,  should 
offer  him  such  a  companion  or  hint  to  him  that  the  creature 
was  of  the  same  species  as  the  round-breasted  lovelinesses 
that  sport  upon  the  frescoes  of  his  tomb,  among  the  lotus 
flowers. 

Poor  Sarah — I  can  forgive  her  when  I  consider  the  pathos 
of  her. 


I  210] 


PART  SEVEN 

IN  WHICH  THE  RIVER  LEAPS  A  SUDDEN  CLIFF 
AND  BECOMES  A  CATARACT 


Ay   cross   your   brow    and 

cross  your  breast 
For     never     again     ye'll 

smile,  Sir  Hugh! 
Ye  flouted  them  that  loved 

ye  best, 

Now  ye  must  drink  as  ye 
did  brew. 


Syne  she  was  warm  against  your  side, 

And  now  she's  singing  the  rising  moon, 
She'll  float  in  on  the  floating  tide, 

And  ye'll  hold  her   soon  and  ye'll  lose 
her  soon! 

Sir  Hugh  and  the  Mermaiden. 


[211] 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
FATE   SPREADS  HER  NET 

[FROM  SUE  PAYNTER] 

PARIS,  March  4th,  188— 
JERRY  DEAR: 

Frederick  died  here  a  week  ago.  His  heart,  you  know, 
was  never  very  good,  and  the  strain  of  his  last  concerts  was 
too  much  for  him.  They  were  very  successful,  and  just 
before  I  came  over,  the  poor  fellow  had  sent  me — in  one  of 
his  periodical  fits  of  reform,  Dieu  merci! — some  beautiful 
jewels,  chains,  aigrettes  and  a  gorgeous  diamond  collar, 
begging  me  to  sell  them,  but  on  no  account  to  wear  them, 
as  if  I  would!  I  sold  them  pretty  well — it's  all  for  the 
babies,  you  know.  Poor  Frederick — I'm  not  sure  his  reforms 
were  not  the  hardest  to  bear! 

He  has  been  for  so  long  so  less  than  nothing  to  me  that 
the  sense  of  freedom  is  startling.  I'm  glad  I  came  as  soon 
as  I  heard  he  was  sinking — it  was  not  so  very  sudden.  I 
was  with  him  to  the  last,  and  the  strangest  people  came  to 
see  him — it  was  tragically  funny.  He  seemed  just  like  a 
poor,  disreputable  brother  to  me,  and  nothing  mattered, 
really,  except  to  get  him  what  little  comfort  one  could. 

I  brought  the  children  over,  and  I  think  we  shall  stay  here 
indefinitely.  I  have  a  nice  little  appartement  not  too  far 
from  the  Bradleys,  though,  of  course,  I  couldn't  afford  to 
live  there!  and  such  a  dear,  sensible  bonne  (d  tout  faire, 
of  course)  who  gets  the  children  into  the  park  every  day  for 
me  when  I'm  busy.  For  I  am  very  seriously  busy,  and  how, 
do  you  think  ?  I  wrote  a  long,  gossippy  letter  to  Alice  Carter 
who  loves  chiffons,  poor  soul,  though  Madam  Bradley 

[213] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


doesn't  give  her  many,  telling  her  what  was  being  worn  and 
where,  and  how,  and  gave  her  a  little  account  of  a  fashion- 
able fete  that  a  friend  of  mine  had  described  to  me,  and  the 
dear  creature  actually  took  the  trouble  of  copying  it,  omitting 
personalities,  of  course,  and  showing  it  to  a  friend  of  Walter's, 
an  amazing  young  man  who  is  starting  some  woman's  maga- 
zine with  a  phenomenal  circulation,  already.  He  offered 
her  a  really  good  price  for  it  and  said  if  I  would  do  the 
same  kind  of  letter  every  month,  he  would  pay  one  hun- 
dred dollars  for  each  one — five  hundred  francs!  Of  course 
I  accepted,  and  now  I  spend  two  days  a  week  in  the 
shops,  getting  ideas  and  making  sketches.  You  see  I  am 
a  business  woman,  really,  Jerry.  I  have  always  believed 
that  plenty  of  women  would  do  better  at  their  husband's 
business,  and  let  them  hire  housekeepers  or  attend  to  the 
house  themselves!  Look  at  the  French  women! 

It  seems  so  good  to  be  here — it  always  agreed  with  me,  la 
belle  France,  and  the  children  seem  well,  too — for  them. 
Little  Susy  really  has  some  colour.  They  are  especially 
fond  of  the  Pare  Monceau,  and  this  charming  out-of-door 
life  that  is  so  easy  here  will  do  wonders  for  them,  I'm  sure. 
That  east  wind  of  Boston — ugh,  how  I  loathe  it! 

I  feel  so  busy  and  so  self-respecting — independence  agrees 
with  me.  You  see,  with  my  few  hundreds  from  father,  and 
these  letters,  and  the  little  income  Roger  got  for  me,  with  the 
principal  put  away  for  the  children,  I  shall  do  very  well 
indeed  and  owe  "nothing  to  nobody."  And  when  Susy 
gets  old  enough,  I'm  going  to  have  her  taught  something — 
trade  or  profession,  rfimportel — that  will  make  her  as 
independent  as  I  am  to-day.  I  think  it  is  criminal  not  to. 
Then  she  needn't  marry  unless  she  wants  to. 

I  wonder  if  you  realise  how  many  women  marry  to  get 
away  from  home?  Few  men  do,  I  imagine.  It's  not 
particularly  flattering  to  you,  messieurs,  but  it's  the  truth. 
I  had  four  sisters,  and  I  know ! 

You  have  heard,  I  suppose,  that  Margarita  is  actually  in 

training  for  the  opera  ?     It  was  very  exciting — Mme.  M i 

is  really  at  the  bottom  of  it,  I  think,  though  everybody  agrees 
with  her  to  this  extent:  the  child  really  has  extraordinary 
talent,  and  with  her  face  and  figure  will  be  sure  of  success, 

[214] 


FATE   SPREADS   HER   NET 

one  would  think.  Of  course  her  voice  is  not  phenomenal — 
I  doubt  if  it  is  big  enough  for  the  New  York  opera  house. 
How  Frederick  used  to  rail  at  that  building!  They  wanted 
him  to  play  there  once,  you  know,  at  some  big  benefit.  He 
always  said  no  respectable  human  voice  could  be  judged 
there — it  seems  the  acoustics  is  wrong.  But  it  is  an  ex- 
ceptionally fine  voice,  nevertheless,  and  so  pure  and  unspoiled. 
She  had  nothing  to  unlearn,  literally,  and  her  acting,  Madame 
says,  is  superb.  She  can  memorise  anything,  and  in  such  a 
short  time! 

But  for  a  Bradley !  Madame  is  furious  that  she  is  married. 
There  are  plenty  to  have  babies  and  live  in  America,  she  says, 
without  her  little  Marguerite!  M.  le  mari  does  not  appre- 
ciate what  a  jewel  he  wishes  to  shut  up,  she  says — but  I  am 
not  so  sure  of  that!  Whether  he  is  really  going  to  let  her  or 
is  only  humouring  her,  I  don't  know.  It  is  rather  an  em- 
barrassing situation,  au  fond,  because  you  know  what  she 
is — calm,  lovely,  enchanting — what  you  will,  but  absolutely 
immovable!  Reasoning  has  no  effect  upon  her,  and  then, 
to  tell  the  truth,  she  has  reasons  of  her  own.  Her  desire  for 
this  is  very  strong,  and  her  affection  for  Roger  is  not  strong 
enough,  apparently,  to  make  her  sacrifice  herself.  Do  you 
think  she  has  any  soul,  really?  I  mean,  what  we  understand 
by  that — something  that  takes  more  than  two  years  of  or- 
dinary life  to  grow.  Passionate,  yes.  Intelligent,  yes. 
But  a  real  soul  ?  Je  m'  en  daute. 

"Of  course  I  love  Roger,  Sue,"  she  said  to  me,  "but  why 
should  I  not  do  what  I  want  to  just  because  I  love  him?  I 
can  love  him  and  sing,  too." 

Then  Miss  Jencks  advances  to  the  fray,  with  pleasant 
platitudes  about  giving  up  what  we  like  for  those  we  love. 

"But  Roger  loves  me,  too,"  says  la  Margarita — "why 
does  he  not  give  up  what  he  likes  because  he  loves  me  ?  " 

Tableau!    Que  jaire  alors? 

It  is  really  rather  complicated,  I  think,  Jerry,  though  you 
will  probably  not  agree  with  me,  when  I  explain  what  I 
mean.  I  have  done  a  great  deal  of  thinking  in  the  years 
since  my  marriage — I  have  been  forced  to.  Things  which 
would  never  have  occurred  to  me,  never  come  into  my 
horizon  if,  for  instance,  I  had  married  Roger;  things  which 

[215] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


would  never,  I  can  see,  be  likely  to  come  into  the  horizon 
of  the  happily  (and  prosperously)  married,  have  come  to  me 
and  I  have  been  obliged,  in  my  poor  way,  to  philosophise 
over  them. 

Have  you  ever  read  Ibsen's  play,  the  "Doll's  House"? 
I  don't  think  it  has  been  acted  in  America,  and  probably 
won't  be,  unless,  perhaps,  in  Boston.  But  get  it  and  read  it. 
It  is  to  show  that  a  woman  is  a  personality,  aside  from  her 
family  relations,  and  must  live  her  life,  finally,  herself.  At 
least,  so  I  understand  it.  It  is  to  be  acted  in  London  soon, 
and  I  am  going  to  try  to  see  it — the  theatre  seems  to  mean  so 
much  more,  this  side  the  water!  One  really  takes  it  seri- 
ously, somehow,  along  with  the  other  arts.  But  then,  there 
is  no  duty  on  art  here! 

Will  you  tell  me,  Jerry,  why,  if  Margarita  really  is  an 
artist  and  has  a  great  gift,  she  should  not  use  it?  It  may 
not  be  what  would  best  please  her  husband  (and  you  know, 
Jerry,  I  would  cut  off  my  hand  for  Roger!  But  I  must  say 
what  I  think)  but  if  she  sees  a  career  open  to  her  of  fame, 
money  and  satisfaction,  why  should  the  fact  of  her  marriage 
prevent  it  ?  As  far  as  fame  goes,  she  could  be  better  known 
than  Roger;  as  far  as  money  goes,  she  could  almost  cer- 
tainly earn  more  than  he  can;  as  far  as  what  Nora,  in  the 
play  I  spoke  of,  calls  "her  duties  towards  herself,"  she  could 
surely  develop  more  fully.  That  is,  if  it  is  necessary  for  a 
woman  to  develop  herself  fully  in  any  but  the  physical 
sense — and  isn't  it  ? 

It  is  all  very  perplexing  and  I  do  so  wish  it  had  happened 
to  any  one  but  Roger!  He  is  much  hurt,  I  know,  though 
he  conceals  it  well,  of  course,  in  his  quiet,  steadfast  sort  of 
way.  What  a  man  he  is !  He  would  never  be  willing,  I  am 
sure,  to  go  back  to  his  profession  in  New  York  and  leave 
Margarita  alone  in  Europe,  exposed  to  all  the  temptations 
and  scandal  and  dangers  that  seem  almost  inevitable  in 
the  life  she  is  preparing  for.  They  might  as  well  be  com- 
pletely and  legally  separated,  in  that  case.  He  has  money 
enough  without  practising  law,  of  course,  but  he  would  never 
be  idle — he  loves  his  work — and  as  for  hanging  about  as  her 
business  manager — I  wish  you  could  have  seen  his  face  when 
Madame  suggested  it !  I  explained  to  her  it  was  not  precisely 
[216] 


FATE   SPREADS   HER   NET 

the  sort  of  thing  his  family  were  accustomed  to  do.  She 
can't  understand  it,  of  course — she  has  the  French  idea  of  a 
lawyer.  When  I  told  her  that  Mr.  Bradley  was  really  vrai 
proprietaire  and  well-to-do  aside  from  his  practice,  she  had 
more  respect  for  him. 

"Then  he  will  not  need  to  occupy  himself,"  she  said  tri- 
umphantly, "and  all  the  better.  Let  him  rent  an  estate 
and  live  en  gentilhomme!  " 

She  has  promised  to  go  back  to  America  for  the  summer 
for  two  months — she  can  learn  her  roles  there,  she  says, 
and  Roger  wants  to  go.  Eh  bien!  We  shall  have  to  wait. 

The  child  is  beautiful — so  strong  and  well,  and  so  ridicu- 
lously the  image  of  Roger.  She  is  trying  to  stand  now — 
think  of  it!  My  poor  little  rats  were  two  years  old  before 
they  could.  A  vous  loujours, 

SUE. 

[FROM  MY  ATTORNEYS] 

SEARS,  BRADLEY  AND  SEARS, 
Attorneys  and  Counsellors-at-Law. 
Cable  Address,  Valleshta. 

2 —  COURT  STREET,  BOSTON,  MASS. 

March  loth,  188— 
WINFRED  JERROLDS,  Esq., 
Cf.,  Coutts  Bros., 

Cairo,  Egypt. 
DEAR  SIR: 

Pursuant  to  our  letters  to  you  of  six  weeks  ago,  we  had 
our  Mr.  James  go  to  the  North  Carolina  plantation  to  investi- 
gate and  report  on  the  property.  He  was  almost  at  once  ap- 
proached with  offers  to  buy  the  property  on  terms  which 
surprised  him.  He  communicated  with  us  and  we  took 
the  responsibility  of  sending  one  of  our  best  mining  experts 
to  look  over  the  ground.  We  found  that  Pittsburg  men  had 
been  making  heavy  purchases  of  land  a  few  miles  west  across 
the  range  and  had  also  been  buying  tracts  adjacent  to  your 
lands  both  north  and  south;  they  had  also  had  a  party  of 
engineers  all  over  your  lands  under  the  guise  of  a  fishing 
party. 

[217] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


The  expert,  Mr.  Minton,  reported  that  he  found  heavy 
outcroppings  of  coal  on  both  sides  of  the  valley,  of  ex- 
cellent steaming  quality.  The  veins  apparently  extend 
through  your  lands  into  the  higher  lands  north  and 
south  of  yours.  West  of  you  but  a  few  miles  these  Pitts- 
burg  people  have  acquired  large  bodies  of  iron  ore.  But 
the  most  important  fact  of  all  is  that  the  valley  is  the  most 
practical  route  for  a  railroad  across  the  range  west  of  you, 
from  the  coast  to  the  iron  lands  already  mentioned,  for 
many  miles  in  either  direction. 

We  have  been  negotiating  for  three  weeks  with  these 
Pittsburg  people  and  they  have  finally  made  us  an  offer 
which  we  enclose.  Briefly,  it  amounts  to  $300,000  in  five 
per  cent,  mortgage  bonds,  $250,000  in  stock  (this  of  proble- 
matic value)  and  a  royalty  of  ten  cents  per  ton  on  all  coal 
mined  on  your  lands,  with  an  agreement  to  mine  at  least 
50,000  tons  annually  until  your  coal  measures  are  practically 
exhausted. 

In  view  of  your  unwillingness  to  come  here  and  yourself 
engineer  a  rival  development  company,  not  to  speak  of  the 
difficulty  of  enlisting  adequate  capital  in  the  face  of  the 
purchases  already  made  by  our  Pittsburg  friends,  we  think 
you  cannot  do  better  than  accept  this  offer.  Whether  we 
can  get  as  good  an  one  later  is  doubtful.  We  have  promised 
an  answer  by  cable  from  you  within  three  days  of  your 
receipt  of  this  letter. 

Congratulating  you  on  these  most  fortunate  discoveries, 
we  remain,  Yours  very  respectfully, 

SEARS,  BRADLEY  AND  SEARS. 


[FROM  TIP  ELDER] 

UNIVERSITY  CLUB,  NEW  YORK, 

March  2oth,  188— 
DEAR  JERRY: 

I  needn't  say  how  hearty  my  congratulations  are  on  your 

good  luck,  need  I  ?    What  a  hit  that  was!     And  what  a  fine 

use  you  are  making  of  it,  too!     Of  course  I'll  help  all  I  can. 

I  must  hurry  to  catch  this  mail-boat,  so  I  will  just  cut  short 

[218] 


FATE   SPREADS   HER   NET 

and  merely  say  that  Latham  and  Waite,  of  Union  Square, 
seem  to  have  put  in  the  best  bid  for  the  work  and  I  have  told 
them  to  send  you  the  detailed  budget  and  contracts  as  soon 
as  they  can  get  them  ready.  They  have  connections  with  a 
big  brick-yard  in  Tennessee  and  say  that  they  can  put  you  up 
a  very  good  little  hospital,  three  wards,  operating-room, 
six  private  rooms,  diet  kitchen,  dispensary,  nurses'  dormi- 
tory and  suite  for  superintendent,  including  one  elevator,  for 
close  under  $65,000,  on  very  good  terms  of  payment.  This 
will  include  all  fittings  (hardware,  etc.)  and  two  fine,  large 
piazzas,  with  arrangements  for  sun  parlour,  if  desired. 
Also  four  bathrooms.  Miss  Buxton  has  selected  the  site, 
as  I  suppose  she  has  written  you,  and  Miss  Bradley  has 
secured  another  deaconess-nurse  for  the  permanent  staff. 
Young  Collier  has  done  marvellously  well  down  there,  and 
the  generous  endowment  you  offer  will  take  care  of  two 
more  boys,  Miss  Buxton  says.  Dr.  McGee  says  that 
Collier  has  a  real  gift  for  surgery — I  think  I  have  got  a  scho- 
larship for  him  at  Johns  Hopkins,  next  year. 

What  a  fine  little  woman  that  nurse  is!  She  can't  speak  of 
you  without  her  eyes  filling  with  tears.  I  teased  her  a  little 
by  saying  that  if  she  had  not  begged  you  for  the  use  of  that 
deserted  farm-house  on  your  land  for  a  convalescent  home, 
you  would  never  have  learned  about  the  coal  and  probably 
sold  the  land  for  a  song,  so  the  credit  was  really  hers — you 
ought  to  have  seen  the  sparks  in  her  eyes! 

"You  have  really  made  him  a  rich  man,"  I  told  her. 

"  I  wish  I  could,"  she  said  very  soberly,  "but  it's  not  money 
Mr.  Jerrolds  needs." 

What  do  you  suppose  she  meant?  Anyhow,  you've  got 
it,  old  fellow,  whether  you  need  it  or  not,  haven't  you  ? 

The  hundred  you  sent  me  (you  knew  I  didn't  need  any 
"fee")  has  gone  into  fitting  up  my  club  gymnasium.  It 
went  a  good  way,  too.  I  miss  Mrs.  Paynter's  suggestions — 
she  is  a  good  business-woman.  What  a  release,  that  black- 
guard's death!  Strong  words  for  a  minister,  perhaps  you 
think,  but  I  tell  you,  my  blood  boils  when  I  think  what  she 
endured.  I  gave  up  my  grandfather's  hell,  long  ago,  but 
some  men  make  you  long  to  believe  in  purgatory! 

I  heard  in  a  round-about  way  from  Roger's  brother-in-law 

[219] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


Carter  (Yale  '8 — ,  isn't  he  ?)  that  Mrs.  Bradley  was  going  on 
the  stage.    I  was  afraid  of  it  last  summer. 

Miss  Bradley  is  a  good  woman,  but  not  much  like  Roger, 
is  she  ?    Queer,  how  people  get  into  the  same  family. 

Hoping  the  rheumatism  is  all  right  now,  and  that  you'll 
make  use  of  me,  in  any  way  you  can,  I  am 

Yours  faithfully, 
TYLER  FESSENDEN  ELDER. 


[FROM  ROGER'S  SISTER] 

NEWTON,  MASS., 

April  2nd,  188 — 
DEAR  JERRY: 

I  can't  resist,  in  spite  of  your  warning,  letting  you  know 
how  deeply  we  appreciate  your  generous  offer  for  the  children. 
You  know,  of  course,  that  we  never  felt  the  slightest  claim. 
It  would  not  have  been  so  much,  anyway,  if  it  had  been 
divided,  and  father  always  felt  that  people  had  a  right  to 
leave  their  money  as  they  chose,  if  they  had  any  rights  in  it 
at  all,  he  said.  I  believe  he  thought  it  ought  to  go  to  the 
State,  or  something.  He  and  Mr.  C — 1  S — z  used  to  talk 
about  it  evenings,  I  remember. 

But  to  provide  so  generously  for  them  in  your  will — it  was 
truly  kind  and  Walter  feels  it  very  much.  I  hope  it  will  be 
long  before  they  get  it,  Jerry.  Of  course  Roger  will  have 
a  son  some  day  and  then  you  will  be  giving  it  to  Roger 
Bradley,  as  you  say,  and  it  won't  have  been  out  of  the  family 
really — you  were  just  like  one  of  us  for  so  many  years.  And 
dearer  to  Unele  Win  than  any  of  us,  I  am  sure. 

With  deepest  gratitude  again  from  Walter  and  myself, 
and  hopes  that  you  are  quite  well  now, 

Yours  always, 
ALICE  BRADLEY  CARTER. 


220] 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

OUR   SECOND  SUMMER   IN  EDEN 

THAT  winter  had  been  my  introduction  to  Egypt.  I  have 
never  since  let  more  than  three  winters,  at  most,  go  by  with- 
out revisiting  the  strange,  haunted  place;  next  to  Nippon 
the  fairy  country  it  is  dearest  to  me  of  all  the  warm  corners 
of  the  earth — and  I  have  dragged  my  twinging,  tortured 
muscles  to  them  all.  Only  last  winter — for  many  months 
have  passed  since  I  copied  those  last  letters  into  my  manu- 
script, and  I  paid  dear  for  a  last  attempt  at  a  February  in 
New  York — I  strolled  through  Cairo  streets,  drew  gratefully 
into  my  nostrils  the  extraordinary  mixture  of  odours  that  dif- 
ferentiates Cairo  from  every  place  in  the  world  (how  the 
great  cities  are  stamped  indelibly  each  with  her  own  nameless 
atmosphere,  by  the  way!  And  yet  not  quite  nameless,  for 
London's  is  based  on  street  mud  and  flower-trays,  Rome  is 
garlic  and  incense,  Paris  is  watered  asphalt,  New  York  is 
untended  horses  and  tobacco-smoke,  and  Tokyo  is  rice 
straw)  and  as  I  strolled,  a  strange  thing  happened  to  me. 

I  was  passing  by  a  street-seller  of  scarabs,  a  treacherous- 
looking  wretch,  whose  rolling  eyes  glanced  covetously  at 
the  scarab — better  than  any  of  his — that  I  wore  at  my 
scarf-knot,  and  pressed  against  him  to  avoid  a  great  black 
with  a  tray  of  brass  bowls  and  platters  on  his  head.  Just 
ahead  of  me  a  lemonade-merchant  uttered  his  wailing,  minor 
cry,  and  as  the  crowd  jostled  in  the  narrow,  dirty  lane,  my 
eye  was  caught  by  a  coffee-coloured  woman,  a  big  Juno, 
with  flashing  teeth  and  a  neck  like  a  bronze  tower.  Across 
her  shoulders  sat  a  naked  baby  who  held  his  balance  by  his 

[221] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


two  chubby  hands  buried  in  her  thick  black  hair,  one  leg 
dropping  over  each  splendid  breast.  She  caught  my  eye, 
and  laughed  outright  as  the  child  kicked  out  with  one  fat 
foot  and  struck  the  brasses  on  the  tray  so  that  it  tipped  and 
swayed  dangerously. 

I  stood  there,  lost  in  a  maze  of  Cairo  streets,  and  the 
babel  of  the  shrieking,  blue-clad  donkey -boys  was  the  scream 
of  gulls  to  my  ears  and  the  sun  on  the  swaying  brass  platters 
was  the  reflection  of  a  polished  sun-dial.  The  turquoises 
on  the  scarab-seller's  tray  were  turquoises  about  Margarita's 
waist,  the  lemonade  was  borne  by  Caliban,  and  the  child 
that  rode  astride  those  strong  shoulders  had  hair  like  corn- 
silk  burned  in  the  sun  and  eyes  as  blue  as  any  turquoise! 
For  so  had  she  held  her  baby,  walking  with  that  free,  noble 
stride,  and  so  she  had  laughed  and  met  my  eyes,  and  so  the 
child  had  clutched  her  hair,  in  the  summer  just  passed. 

So  vivid  was  the  impression  that  I  stood,  as  I  say,  in  a  maze, 
and  the  scarab-seller  and  he  of  the  brass  tray  cursed  me 
heartily  as  they  struggled  for  balance  in  the  pushing,  scream- 
ing, reeking  crowd.  How  meaningless  that  phrase,  "real 
life! "  Years  and  years  of  actual  happenings  in  my  life  have 
been  less  real  than  those  seconds  in  the  Cairo  streets,  when 
down  the  alley- ways  of  sound  and  sight,  across  the  intricate 
network  of  that  spongy,  grey  tissue  in  my  skull,  this  tiny, 
deathless,  unimportant  memory  led  my  soul  away  from 
the  present  and  left  me,  an  unconscious,  stupid,  mechanical 
toy,  to  block  the  Cairo  traffic,  while  I — the  real  I — lived  far 
away.  Truly  the  poets  and  the  children  are  our  only  real- 
ists, and  Time  and  Space  have  fooled  the  rest  of  us  unmer- 
cifully. 

I  find  that  trivial  recollections  of  this  sort  interest  me  far 
more  in  the  recording  than  my  sensations  as  a  wealthy  man. 
These  last  were,  indeed,  strikingly  few.  Beyond  the  pleasure 
of  buying  old  Jeanne  a  Cashmere  shawl,  the  hidden  ambition 
of  her  life,  and  giving  orders  for  Harriet's  hospital  (for  I 
seemed  to  have  brought  the  natives  of  North  Carolina 
[  222! 


OUR   SECOND    SUMMER   IN    EDEN 

down  on  my  shoulders,  somehow — and  that  without  the 
faintest  interest  in  them!)  my  amazing  good  fortune  made 
less  impression  upon  me,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  than  Uncle 
Winthrop's  first  legacy.  What  was  there  for  me  to  do  with 
it?  Roger  refused  to  touch  a  penny;  my  mother,  beyond 
a  little  increase  in  her  charity  fund  and  a  pony  phaeton, 
was  merely  bewildered  when  asked  to  make  any  suggestions, 
and  would  have  handed  purses  to  every  tramp  in  New 
England  if  she  had  been  given  the  means;  my  father's 
people  were  well-to-do,  and  the  conferring  of  benefactions 
has  always  been  difficult  for  me,  anyway.  The  only  way 
for  me  would  be  to  drop  gold-pieces  on  needy  thresholds  by 
night  and  run  away — a  startling  occupation  for  a  rheumatic 
bachelor,  surely!  I  do  not  know  how  to  receive  thanks— 
they  embarrass  me  frightfully.  To  stand  smugly  with  a 
philanthropic  smile  while  the  widow  and  the  orphan  weep 
around  my  knees,  is  something  I  should  be  forever  unable 
to  achieve.  Harriet's  hospital  was  not  a  charity — it  was 
something  to  keep  the  ridiculous  creature  busy — her  yacht, 
her  picture  gallery,  her  stud-farm,  if  you  will. 

As  for  me,  I  had  none  of  these  tastes.  I  bought  the  one 
or  two  pictures  I  had  always  wanted,  that  were  within  my 
means  (most  of  them  weren't  within  anybody's!)  I  put  a 
piano  in  my  new  rooms,  laid  in  a  little  wine  for  my  appreciative 
friends,  bespoke  the  unshared  services  of  Hodgson,  who  was 
unfortunately  necessary  to  me  now  that  every  sudden  damp 
day  crippled  my  right  shoulder  (he  came  to  me  wearing  one 
of  my  old  suits,  by  the  way)  and  put  a  new  steam-launch  into 
Roger's  concealed  boat-house.  I  presented  Margarita  with 
another  and  a  larger  gift  of  pearls,  it  is  true,  but  without 
one-tenth  of  the  choking  excitement  with  which  I  had 
clasped  that  first  single  one  upon  her  neck. 

The  lady  herself,  however,  balanced  this  equation;  she 
was  greatly  delighted,  and  if  she  had  not,  perhaps,  perfectly 
appreciated  the  first  offering,  more  than  atoned  by  her  rap- 
turous recognition  of  the  second. 

[223] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


"  And  how  they  must  have  cost! "  she  cried.  "  Jerry,  you 
are  too  generous — but  I  do  love  them!" 

To  think  of  Margarita's  estimating  the  value  of  a  gift! 

We  had  famous  talks  that  August,  while  Roger  sweated 
at  his  new  task — making  an  island  for  us,  no  less ! — and  petite 
Marie  gathered  shells  and  buried  them  in  tiny,  wave-washed 
graves. 

She  took  to  reading  that  summer,  and  I  read  Pendennis  and 
David  Copperfield  aloud  and  she  embroidered  great  grey 
butterflies  all  over  her  grey  gown  for  Faust,  and  the  big 
brindled  hound  slept  at  our  feet  near  the  bee-hives. 

"  Which  do  you  like  best?"  I  asked  her  curiously. 

"  Oh,  the  one  about  Mr.  Pendennis  is  the  prettiest,"  she 
answered  promptly,  "  I  should  have  liked  the  man  that  made 
that  book  the  best.  But  Mr.  Dickens  knows  about  more 
things.  He  makes  more  different  kinds  of  people." 

"Thackeray  has  been  called  cynical,"  I  suggested. 

"What  is  that,  Jerry?" 

I  explained,  and  she  shook  her  head. 

"  O  no,  that  is  not  cynical.  That  is  the  way  things  are, 
Jerry.  Only  everybody  does  not  say  so." 

"Do  you  think,"  I  asked,  "that  people  really  talk  the 
way  Mr.  Micawber  talks?  I  never  heard  anybody.  And 
certainly  nobody  ever  talked  like  his  wife." 

"No,"  she  said  thoughtfully,  "I  never  did,  either.  But 
there  must  be  a  good  many  people  like  them,  Jerry,  I  am 
sure.  And  if  they  knew  as  many  long  words  as  Mr.  Dickens, 
that  is  the  way  they  would  talk,  I  think." 

I  have  never  heard  a  better  criticism  of  the  literary  giant 
of  the  nineteenth  century. 

She  never  made  the  slightest  secret  of  her  affection  for  me 
nor  of  our  thorough  comprehension  of  each  other  and  our 
similarity  of  tastes.  Quiet  always,  or  almost  always,  with 
Roger,  with  me  she  chattered  like  a  bird,  and  I  could  give 
her  opinion  on  many  matters  of  which  he  knew  nothing. 

"  Jerry  and  I  like  Botticelli  and  caviar  sandwiches  and 
[224] 


OUR   SECOND    SUMMER   IN   EDEN 

street  songs  and  Egypt,  and  Roger  does  not,"  she  told 
Clarence  King  once — I  can  hear  him  roar  now. 

"  I  can  talk  better  to  you  than  to  Roger,"  she  confided  to 
me  one  day  on  the  rocks;  "if  it  were  the  custom  to  have 
two  husbands,  Jerry,  I  should  like  you  for  the  other — but 
it  is  not,"  she  added  mournfully. 

I  agreed  to  this  with  regret  and  she  went  on  thoughtfully. 

"  You  see,  Roger  would  not  like  it,  even  if  it  -was  the  cus- 
tom, so  I  could  not,  anyway." 

"  That  is  very  amiable  of  you,"  I  said. 

"  It  is  strange  how  I  always  think  of  what  he  would  like," 
she  added,  with  perfect  sincerity,  I  am  sure.  "One  day 
when  he  would  not  let  me  have  any  more  bread — it  was  so 
bad  for  my  voice,  you  know — I  got  very  angry  and  spoke 
crossly  to  him,  but  still  he  would  not,  and  I  told  him  that 
since  he  did  not  want  me  to  sing  he  had  better  let  me  spoil 
my  voice,  if  I  wanted  to — and  you  would  think  he  would, 
would  you  not,  Jerry?" 

"No,"  I  answered  soberly,  "no,  Margarita,  I  wouldn't. 
He  knew  you  really  wanted  your  voice  more  than  the  bread, 
so  he  gave  you  what  you  wanted." 

"  Yes.  But  that  day  I  was  so  angry,  I  planned  how  much 
more  free  I  should  be  if  he  were  to  die — was  it  not  terrible, 
Jerry? — and  then  I  got  so  interested  I  could  not  stop,  and 
I  made  a  dying  sickness  for  him  like  my  father's,  and  Miss 
Buxton  came,  and  then  I  got  a  black  frock  like  Hester  when 
my  father  died,  and  then  we — you  and  I — made  a  grave  for 
him  with  my  father's  grave  on  the  little  point,  and  then  (this 
was  all  in  my  mind,  you  see,  Jerry)  I  was  so  sad  I  cried  and 
cried — as  I  do  in  Marguerite,  all  over  my  cheeks,  and  then, 
what  do  you  think?" 

"Heavens,  child,  what  can  I  think?  I  don't  know,"  I 
said  unsteadily,  revolving  God  knows  what  of  possibilities 
in  my  presumptuous  and  selfish  heart. 

"Why,"  she  said  simply,  " I  felt  so  badly  that  I  went  to 
Roger  (in  my  mind)  to  tell  him  about  it  and  show  him  the 

[225] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


beautiful  grave  we  had  made  and  my  black  frock  (I  had  a 
little  pointed  bonnet  with  white  under  the  front,  like  the 
widows  in  Paris)  and  suddenly  I  remembered  that  I  could  not 
show  him — he  would  be  dead!  You  see  that  would  have 
been  very  bad,  for  I  had  been  planning  all  the  time  that  he 
would  be  there  to — to — well,  that  he  would  be  there!  You 
see  what  I  mean,  don't  you,  Jerry?  Roger  has  to  be  there." 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  I  said,  very  low,  filled  with  sickening  shame, 
"  he  has  to  be  there,  my  dear." 

"And  so  I  stopped  all  that  dying  sickness  directly,"  she 
continued  comfortably,  "  because  it  was  too  silly,  if  I  could 
not  tell  him  about  it  afterwards,  you  see. 

"And  yet  he  was  very  cross  to  me  about  the  bread,"  she 
burst  out  childishly.  "  Why  do  I  think  he  has  to  be  there, 
Jerry?  He  cannot  talk  to  me  nearly  so  nicely  as  you  carl — 
lie  does  not  understand.  Why  must  he  be  there?" 

I  choked  and  laughed  at  once. 

" Because  you  love  him,  you  silly  Margarita!"  I  declared. 

"That  must  be  it,"  she  agreed,  with  a  serious,  long  look 
at  me  out  of  those  deep-sea  coloured  eyes. 

Ah,  me! 

How  we  worked  at  that  canal!  Caliban  and  two  swarthy 
Italians  and  Roger  and' I — for  I  marked  out  the  course  of  it  in 
an  artfully  natural  curve  and  put  in  the  stakes.  There  were 
eighty-odd  feet  across  the  part  of  the  peninsula  we  selected, 
and  it  bade  fair  to  wear  us  all  out  and  last  forever,  till  I 
seized  the  occasion  of  a  business  trip  that  took  Roger  away 
for  four  days  and  hired  a  great  gang  of  labourers  who 
finished  it  all  up,  so  that  he  walked  into  his  island  home 
across  a  foot-bridge,  to  his  great  and  boyish  delight.  What 
a  big  boy  he  was,  after  all!  Not  that  I  did  not  share  his 
pleasure  in  the  Island:  it  gave  me  a  delicious  feeling  of  secur- 
ity and  distance  from  the  rest  of  the  world.  With  the  help 
of  the  gang  I  had  been  able  to  widen  our  channel  consider- 
ably and  it  took  a  very  respectable  bridge  indeed  to  span  the 
gap.  We  had  made  plans  for  a  regular  drawbridge,  but  later 
[226] 


OUR   SECOND    SUMMER    IN    EDEN 

we  abandoned  them,  and  chopped  even  the  old  one  down. 
The  water  has  washed  and  washed  and  worn  away  since, 
on  the  island  side,  and  now  one  must  be  bent  upon  a  swim 
indeed  who  cares  to  venture  among  the  jagged  ledges  and 
mill-races  that  my  blasting  made. 

We  piped  our  spring  too — a  beauty — up  through  the  dairy 
cellar  to  the  kitchen,  and  Caliban  was  saved  many  a  weary 
trip.  Some  years  afterward  I  took  my  chance  during  another 
absence  of  the  lord  of  the  Island,  and  a  hurried  and  aston- 
ished set  of  plumbers  installed  a  luxurious  bathroom  in 
either  ell  of  the  cottage — a  surprise  for  his  birthday.  Profit- 
ing by  a  winter  in  Bermuda,  I  copied  their  roof  reservoirs, 
allowing  one  to  each  ell,  sanded  without,  whitewashed  with- 
in, an  architectural  measure  which  made  the  skyline  even 
more  rocky  and  wild,  in  appearance,  from  the  water.  Before 
we  left,  that  autumn,  we  planted  fifty  evergreens,  pines, 
hemlocks  and  spruces,  in  a  broad  belt  just  opposite  the 
Island,  masking  it  completely  from  the  shore,  and  hardly  a 
year  passed  after  that  without  thickening  and  lengthening  that 
concealing  wall.  Oh,  we  guarded  our  jewel,  I  can  tell  you! 

It  was  that  summer,  I  think,  that  Whistler  came  to  us  and 
drew  that  series  of  sepia  sketches  that  frames  the  big  fire- 
place. They  are  on  the  plaster  itself — a  sort  of  exquisite 
fresco — and  Venice  sails,  Holland  wind-mills  and  London 
docks  cluster  round  the  faded  bricks  with  an  indescribably 
fascinating  effect.  At  my  urgent  request  I  was  allowed  to 
protect  them  with  thin  tiles  of  glass  riveted  through  the 
corners  into  the  plaster:  how  the  collectors'  mouths  water 
at  the  sight  of  them! 

Stevenson  came  a  few  years  later:  all  the  quaint  comforts 
and  intimate  beauties  hidden  away  behind  the  boulders 
plainly  caught  his  elfish,  childlike  fancy — it  was  he  who  made 
the  little  grotto  beyond  the  asparagus  bed,  lined  the  pool 
in  it  with  unusual  shells  and  coloured  pebbles,  fitted  odd  bits 
of  looking-glass  here  and  there,  and  wrote  a  poem  on  a  smooth 
stone  at  the  door  for  little  Mary,  to  whom  he  dedicated  it. 

[227] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


"The  purple  pool  of  mussel  shells, 
All  full  of  salty  ocean  smells, 
The  coral  branches  in  the  wall — 
And  you  the  mermaid  queen  of  all  ..." 

She  used  to  recite  it  all  very  charmingly.  Roger  never  wanted 
it  printed  in  the  Child's  Garden  of  Verses,  where  it  properly 
belongs — one  of  the  best  of  them,  in  my  opinion. 

He  and  Margarita  talked  together  by  the  hour  and  I  have 
seen  his  dog-like  brown  eyes  fixed  on  her  an  hour  at  a  time. 
I  asked  him  once  if  he  intended  to  "put  her  in  a  story" — 
the  quaint  query  of  the  layman,  so  strangely  irritating  to  the 
book-man — and  he  shook  his  loose-locked  head  slowly. 

"They  say  I  can't  do  women,  you  know,"  he  said,  "and 
nobody  would  believe  her  if  I  put  her  in,  she's  too  artistically 
effective." 

And  here  am  I  doing  it!    Fools  rush  in  ... 

It  may  seem  odd  that  Roger  and  I  should  not  discuss 
the  opera  business,  but  we  didn't.  That  it  hurt  him  I  knew, 
for  I  knew  Roger.  Anglo-Saxon  to  the  backbone,  the  position 
which  his  wife  as  a  successful  operatic  star  must  put  him  in 
could  be  nothing  but  highly  distasteful  to  him.  It  is  one 
thing  to  snatch  your  wife  from  the  stage,  as  Margarita's 
noble  grandfather  had  done,  and  enjoy  her  in  your  home; 
it  is  quite  another  to  see  her  snatched  from  your  home  to  that 
stage,  after  you  have  married  her.  But  I  have  never  known  a 
juster  man,  and  though  he  talked  little  of  the  "rights"  of 
women,  and  then  in  a  brief,  blunt  fashion  that  would  have 
exasperated  the  fast-emerging  sex  most  terribly,  he  never- 
theless respected  the  rights  of  every  human  creature  most 
scrupulously.  Though  he  had  the  private  appreciation  of 
the  unmistakable  good  points  of  the  harem-seclusion  shared 
by  every  healthy  male,  he  would  never  have  shut  Margarita 
into  a  New  York  house  or  a  honeymoon-island  against  her 
will,  and  I  think  he  was  too  proud  to  reason  with  her  on 
the  only  lines  open  to  him.  I  think,  too,  that  his  quiet  re- 
fusal to  take  any  strong  measures  may  have  been  based, 
[228J 


OUR   SECOND   SUMMER   IN   EDEN 

partly,  on  the  full  appreciation  of  the  risk  he  ran  in  marry- 
ing such  a  bundle  of  possibilities  as  Margarita.  One  of  the 
greatest  passions  that  ever  (I  firmly  believe)  mated  two  people 
had  whirled  him  out  of  the  conventional  current  of  his  life, 
and  because  it  had,  in  its  course,  brought  him  into  the  rapids, 
he  was  enough  of  a  man  to  set  his  teeth  and  take  it  quietly, 
knowing  that  when  he  left  the  calm,  green-bordered  stream 
for  the  adventure  of  flood  tide,  he  did  it  with  his  eyes  open — 
a  grown  man.  Or  so,  at  least,  I  take  it  that  he  reasoned: 
he  acted  as  if  he  had. 

Again,  it  would  have  been  difficult  for  me  to  discuss  the 
matter  for  another  reason  than  Roger's  perfectly  characteris- 
tic reserve.  Much  as  I  regretted  that  this  issue  should  have 
arisen  in  Roger's  household,  like  Sue  Paynter  I  had  a  secret 
sympathy  with  Margarita.  Roger  was  never  fond  of  the 
stage,  and  I  was.  He  preferred  chamber-music  and  sym- 
phony to  opera,  and  was  never  deeply  sensible  to  the  solo 
voice,  though  a  good  critic  of  it.  The  glamour  of  the  stage — 
that  lime-light  that  has  eternally  dazzled  the  sons  of  Adam 
— had  little  effect  upon  him:  he  was  the  last  man  in  the 
world  to  marry  an  actress.  Now,  I  was  not.  Judic,  the 
naughty  creature,  had  once  her  charm  for  me.  I  have 
stood  in  a  crowd  to  see  the  Jersey  Lily,  and  the  Queen  of 
English  comediennes  could  have  had  me  for  a  turn  of  her 
thick  lashes — before  I  knew  Margarita.  My  paternal 
grandmother  was  part  French,  and  I  have  always  observed 
that  a  mixture  of  blood  predisposes  its  inheritors  to  dramatic 
triumphs — or  enjoyments,  if  no  more. 

So  he  dug  at  his  canal  and  Margarita  practised  her  Jewel 
Song  (it  was  a  shade  high  for  her:  she  was  not  a  pure  soprano, 
but  had  one  of  those  flexible  mezzos  that  tempt  their 
trainers  to  all  sorts  of  tours-de-force)  and  Dolledge  tended 
Mary  and  Miss  Jencks  developed  Caliban. 

The  good  woman  was  utterly  unhappy  without  some 
subject  on  which  to  exercise  her  really  remarkable  powers 
of  education.  Mary's  attendant  resented  bitterly  any  rival 

[229] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


in  her  certainly  well-filled  sphere,  and  Margarita  was  far 
beyond  her  one-time  mentor  now,  and  regarded  her  with  the 
affectionate  tolerance  of  a  princess  for  her  old  nurse.  This 
was  hard  on  the  devoted  Barbara,  for  she  adored  Margarita, 
and  to  find  oneself  gently  sliding  to  the  foot  of  the  pedestal, 
when  one  has  not  so  long  ago  been  occupied  in  moulding  the 
statue,  cannot  be  very  enlivening,  though  one  be  never  so 
philosophical. 

In  truth  I  had  at  that  time  a  strange  sensation:  I  found 
that  I  had  insensibly  drifted  into  a  state  of  mind  in  which  we 
five,  Roger,  Miss  Jencks,  Dolledge,  Caliban  and  I  seemed 
to  be  at  home,  contented,  occupied,  attached  by  every  interest 
domestic  and  romantic,  to  the  spot  that  was  dearest  on  earth 
to  us,  while  Margarita,  a  brilliant  bird  of  passage,  but  lin- 
gered with  us  for  the  moment,  before  she  took  up  her  journey 
through  the  world — for  that  she  was  destined  for  the  world, 
who  could  doubt?  We  were,  to  use  the  homely  old  figure, 
like  a  circle  of  motherly  hens,  staring  fatalistically,  sadly 
or  disgustedly,  according  to  our  several  barnyard  tempera- 
ments, at  our  daring,  iridescent  duckling  as  she  breasted 
the  (to  her)  familiar  flood. 

For  it  was  familiar:  there  are  people  for  whom — taken 
though  they  may  have  been  from  the  most  secluded  corner 
of  the  earth,  unprepared,  undisciplined,  unwarned,  the  great 
world,  the  glitter  of  its  footlights,  the  shock  of  its  tourna- 
ments, the  cruelty  of  its  victories,  the  coldness  of  its  neglect, 
have  absolutely  no  terrors.  They  face  it  superbly,  as  one 
should  face  a  mob,  and  the  great  world,  like  any  proper  mob, 
licks  their  feet  and  fawns  on  them.  Admiration  is  their 
due;  devotion  is  no  more  than  the  sky  above  them  or  the 
earth  under  them;  they  keep  the  divine,  expectant  hauteur 
of  childhood  and  rule  us,  like  the  children,  through  our  pity 
and  our  wonder.  And  Margarita  was  one  of  these. 


230] 


CHAPTER   XXV 
THE   ISLAND  TOMB 

BUT  to  go  back  to  Miss  Jencks  and  Caliban.  It  was  Harriet 
Buxton  who  had  suggested  that  the  boy  was  not  so  deaf  as 
we  had  thought,  only  stupid,  and  that  his  dumbness  might 
yield  to  the  methods  then  being  so  successfully  used  with  that 
afflicted  child  who  has  since  triumphed  so  brilliantly  over 
more  than  human  obstacles.  Although,  as  Harriet  pointed 
out,  I  have  always  felt  that  too  much  credit  was  given  in  that 
case  to  the  pupil  and  too  little  to  the  teacher.  The  distance 
between  English  words  of  one  syllable  and  Greek  tragedy 
is  only  a  matter  of  time:  the  distance  between  blank  chaos 
and  those  one-syllabled  words  might  well  have  seemed  eter- 
nal! 

Not  that  Miss  Jencks  had  quite  such  a  task  ahead  of  her. 
Caliban  had  been  trained  into  habits  of  relentless  cleanliness, 
and  an  almost  mechanical  regularity  of  routine  work.  It 
was  his  clumsy  hands  that  had  arranged  the  flaming  nas- 
turtiums in  the  silver  bowl  under  the  Henner  etching,  his 
rude  pantomime  that  purchased  the  bi-weekly  bone  for  the 
mysteriously  named  Rosy,  his  weather  wisdom  that  was 
sought  when  it  was  a  question  of  an  extended  sailing  party.  In 
fact,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  in  view  of  his  subsequent  pro- 
gress, that  some  of  his  ignorance  was  feigned,  as  is  often  the 
case  in  these  instances  of  arrested  mental  development.  How- 
ever that  may  have  been,  on  the  occasion  of  this  visit  I  found 
him  marvellously  improved,  his  hair  cut,  his  nondescript 
garments  evolved  into  a  modest  sort  of  livery,  his  vocabu- 
lary no  longer  a  series  of  grunts,  his  very  pantomime  more 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


elastic.  Margarita  never  changed  her  old  methods  of  com- 
munication with  him,  but  the  rest  of  us,  at  Miss  Jencks's 
earnest  entreaty,  fatigued  ourselves  amiably  in  order  to 
elicit  the  guttural  "yes"  and  "no"  and  "do  not  know" 
she  had  so  laboriously  taught  him. 

Best  of  all,  his  disposition  had  altered  to  a  very  consider- 
able extent,  and  this  improvement  on  his  old  surliness  was  of 
the  greatest  assistance  to  us  on  the  occasion  I  must  now 
narrate. 

It  was  I — strangely  fated  to  discover  so  many  of  the  links 
in  this  wonderfully  twined  chain  of  Margarita's  life — who 
stumbled  by  the  merest  chance  on  the  last  one  really  needed 
to  complete  the  story.  Zealous  for  the  perfection  of  our 
Island,  I  selected  a  deep  gully,  filled  with  heavy  boughs  and 
loose  unsightly  rocks,  as  the  next  point  for  improvement, 
and  bespoke  the  services  of  Caliban  for  the  purpose.  Greatly 
to  my  surprise,  for  he  was  attached  to  me,  and  always 
showed  pleasure  at  rowing  me  over  for  my  visits,  he  refused 
point  blank  to  help  me  and  even  tried,  in  a  series  of  clumsy 
ruses,  to  start  me  at  work  elsewhere.  Vexed,  but  quite 
unsuspicious,  I  set  to  work  by  myself  at  pulling  off  the  upper 
boughs,  trusting  to  shame  him  into  helping  me  with  the 
stones,  which  seemed  to  have  been  tossed  there  in  a  sort  of 
midden.  When  he  found  that  I  was  persistent  in  my  plan, 
he  sat  down  at  the  edge  of  the  gully,  buried  his  face  in  his 
clumsy  hands  and  wept  silently,  shuddering  at  every  bough 
I  lifted.  Greatly  interested  now,  I  called  Roger,  and  we 
worked  together,  assisted  by  the  good-natured  Italian 
retained  now  as  gardener  and  assistant  boatman  (his  name 
was  Rafaello,  and  he  was  a  not-too-unhappy  bachelor,  for, 
as  he  said,  a  girl  who  would  run  off  with  a  man's  rival  a 
week  before  the  wedding  would  have  made  but  a  doubtful 
wife  for  the  most  patient  of  husbands!) 

As  we  neared  the  bottom  of  the  gully  Caliban  grew  more 
and  more  excited:  now  he  would  peer  in  fearfully,  now  run 
off  a  few  yards,  but  he  could  never  get  very  far  away,  for  great 

[232] 


AH,  FAITHFUL  CALIBAN, 
WHAT  HOURS  OF  TERRIBLE 
TUITION  MADE  THY  TASK 
CLEAR  TO  THEE! 


THE    ISLAND    TOMB 


as  was  his  terror  and  sorrow,  curiosity  was  stronger  and  he 
must  be  near,  it  seemed,  at  all  costs. 

Suddenly,  as  the  last  rotting  bough  was  lifted  from  one 
end  of  the  gully,  my  eye  was  caught  by  a  series  of  stones 
wonderfully  matched  in  size,  eight  or  ten  of  them  arranged 
in  a  sort  of  rough  cross,  and  when  with  a  quick  thrill  of  ap- 
prehension I  pushed  aside  the  withered  pine  tree  that  covered 
the  rest  of  the  stones,  the  foot  of  the  cross  elongated,  and 
the  symbol  of  Calvary  was  seen  to  extend  over  a  slightly 
raised  oblong  mound  of  earth.  There  was  no  mistaking 
that  shape  nor  those  dimensions;  whoever  has  heard  the 
rattle  of  that  last  remorseless  handful  and  struggled  with 
that  almost  nauseating  rebellion  at  the  sight  of  the  raw  clods, 
so  unsightly  in  the  smooth,  peaceful  green,  knows  that 
mound  for  what  it  is,  and  we  knew  this.  Silently  we  cleared 
away  the  rest,  and  then  the  grave  I  had  discerned  fell  into 
its  true  and  illuminating  relation  to  two  other  and  evidently 
older  crosses — at  the  feet  of  both  and  at  right  angles  to  them. 
In  her  death  as  in  her  life  that  gaunt,  austere  Hester  was 
faithful,  and  like  the  stone  hound  at  the  ancient  knight's 
bier  she  guarded  her  master's  last  sleep. 

We  took  off  our  caps  reverently;  we  needed  no  monu- 
ment, no  epitaph  to  name  for  us  those  exiled,  unblessed 
graves.  Prynne  had  made  the  first  cross,  we  knew,  twenty- 
seven  years  ago;  Hester  had  made  the  second  a  few  days  be- 
fore Roger  visited  the  island.  And  the  third?  Ah,  faith- 
ful Caliban,  what  hours  of  terrible  tuition  made  thy  task 
clear  to  thee  ?  I  shudder  at  the  picture  of  that  indefatigable 
New  England  woman  illustrating  in  terrible  pantomime 
the  duties  that  would  devolve  upon  her  loutish  servant  at 
her  death.  But  the  lesson  had  been  learned,  the  third  coffin 
taken  from  the  boat-house,  the  body  laid  within  it  at  the 
graveside,  carried  swiftly  from  the  house  wrapped  in  a 
sheet,  the  lid  nailed  down,  the  earth  filled  in. 

Gaspingly  he  verified  my  quiet  questions  and  surmises 
— I  have  enough  New  England  blood  to  know  what  ghastly 

[233] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


forethought  we  are  capable  of! — and  slowly  he  calmed 
himself,  seeing  that  we  were  neither  frightened  nor 
angry  .  .  . 

One  end  of  the  island  repeats  on  a  tiny  scale  the  forma- 
tion of  the  original  peninsula.  Three  quaint  red  cedars  stand 
pointed  and  forever  green,  more  like  the  cypresses  of  Italy 
than  anything  in  America;  around  its  rocky  beach  the  waves 
beat  incessantly,  but  its  grass  is  fresh  and  green,  for  there  is 
a  little  spring  there.  Under  the  cypresses  lie  three  flat  graves, 
two  side  by  side,  one  across  their  feet,  and  over  each  lies  a  flat 
carved  table  of  marble — rich  carvings  that  once  stretched 
under  three  heavy  mullioned  windows  over  the  back  doors 
of  an  old  Italian  palace.  There  are  only  initials  on  these . 
tables,  initials  and  the  numerals  of  years,  but  they  are  not 
utterly  unblest.  Good  Parson  Elder  read  the  most  beauti- 
ful burial  service  in  the  world  over  them,  broken  by  the  tears 
of  a  trusty  servant;  the  children  and  the  children's  children 
of  the  crumbling  bodies  under  two  of  those  tables  stood  over 
them  hand  in  hand;  and  Nature,  who  bears  no  grudge  nor 
ever  excommunicates  the  fruitful,  brings  to  the  sunlight 
every  year  the  yellow  daffodils  and  white  narcissus,  the  wild 
rose  and  beach  bayberry,  the  marigold  and  asters  that  love 
has  planted  there. 

It  may  be  that  further  clues,  more  detailed  accounts  of  that 
secret  island  life,  were  hidden  in  those  coffins;  we  never  tried 
if  it  was  so.  Unknown  and  lonely  they  lived,  unknown  and 
lonely  they  had  wished  to  lie  in  death,  and  so  we  left  them, 
safe  even  from  ourselves,  who  loved  them  for  the  wonderful 
child  they  had  given  us.  And  I  like  to  think  that  God  is  no 
less  forgiving  than  the  Nature  through  which  he  tries  to  lead 
us  to  him. 


[234] 


CHAPTER   XXVI 
A  HANDFUL  OF   MEMORIES 

THEY  left  in  October  that  year;  Margarita  to  get  ready 
for  her  ddbut,  Roger,  quiet  and  inscrutable,  to  work,  as  he 
said,  at  his  treatise  on  Napoleon.  He  had  grown  deeply 
interested  in  this  and  spent  most  of  his  leisure  at  it,  and  it 
had  gone  far  beyond  his  first  idea  of  an  essay.  I  did  not  go 
with  them,  but  took  the  occasion  for  a  filial  visit  to  my 
mother  and  a  grudging  journey  to  North  Carolina,  where  I 
stared  uncomprehendingly  at  the  chaotic  hospital,  a  litter 
of  bricks  and  scantling,  listened  to  tiresome  and  enthusiastic 
statistics  from  young  Collier  and  Dr.  McGee,  distributed 
papers  of  sweets  to  a  ward  of  convalescent  and  sticky  in- 
fants, and  refused  to  take  a  toilsome  journey  around  the 
borders  of  my  one-time  coal-lands.  They  were  no  longer 
mine — why  should  I  care  to  view  them  ? 

Just  before  I  left  for  Paris,  where  Captain  Upgrove  was  to 
join  me,  I  remembered  some  drawings  I  had  planned  to  make 
in  order  to  get  the  dimensions  of  the  rambling,  old-fashioned 
garden  behind  the  house  where  I  intended  to  put  a  certain 
ancient  shallow  stone  basin  I  had  in  mind,  and  then  beg 
Roger  to  pipe  the  spring  into  it  for  a  sort  of  fountain-pool. 
There  was  such  a  basin  on  an  old,  decaying  estate  some  miles 
out  of  our  old  school-town:  Roger  and  I  knew  it  well,  for  we 
had  often  been  invited  there  by  a  friend  of  my  mother's  to 
drink  tea  and  eat  rusk  and  fresh  butter  and  confiture  (of 
field  strawberries — delicious!)  and — of  all  things — broiled 
bacon,  because  Roger  was  devotedly  fond  of  it  and  never 
got  it  at  school.  How  many  June  half-holidays  have  we 

[235] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


hung  over  that  old  carved  basin,  teasing  the  goldfish, 
stopping  up  the  tiny  fountain  till  it  spouted  all  over  us,  sailing 
beetles  across  it  on  linden  leaves,  or  lolling  full-fed  and  lazy, 
smoking  contraband  cigarettes  of  caporal!  I  knew  well 
how  pleased  he  would  be  when  he  saw  that  battered  dolphin 
that  threw  the  water  and  the  funny  little  stone  frogs  at  each 

corner,  and  I  had  a  shrewd  idea  that  old  Mrs.  Y would 

not  object  to  parting  with  it,  moss  and  lichen  and  all,  if 
one  made  it  worth  her  while! 

A  cold,  rainy  week — the  delayed  equinox — caught  and 
held  me  on  the  island,  huddled  over  the  fire,  and  it  was  then 
that  I  conceived  the  famous  idea  of  the  furnace.  I  had 
planned  many  a  pleasant  autumn  there,  for  it  was  now  the 
best  of  America  to  me,  and  if  such  weeks  as  this  were  pos- 
sible (and  probable)  there  would  be  little  comfort  for  me 
away  from  the  chimney  corner — which  has  never  been  my 
favourite  post,  by  the  way.  Caliban  and  Agnes,  the  cook, 
a  kindly  Normandy  woman,  did  their  best  for  me  and  for  the 
ravenous  gang  of  workmen  that  laboured  (in  the  slight  in- 
tervals between  their  meals!)  at  the  monstrous,  many- 
mouthed  iron  tube  in  the  cellar;  while  I  chafed  and  scolded 
at  the  delays,  unwilling  to  leave  the  men,  weary  of  my 
dear  Island  now  its  chief  jewel  was  gone,  irritated  by  the 
tramping  feet  and  tuneless  whistling  where  I  had  heard  so 
much  the  patter  of  petite  Marie's  slippers  and  the  rich  melody 
of  her  mother's  voice. 

It  was  then  that  I  fell  upon  Lockwood  Prynne's  library 
and  learned  more  of  his  mind,  I  believe,  than  anyone  else 
could  ever  know.  I  wish  I  had  known  the  man  himself. 
The  little  I  have  been  able  to  find  out  about  him  in  the  South 
(the  war  practically  wiped  out  the  family)  only  confirmed 
my  first  idea  of  him.  I  actually  succeeded  in  tracking  an 
old  album  of  daguerreotypes  to  a  shiftless  darkey  cabin 
and  identifying  a  picture  of  him  as  a  boy  from  a  half-blind 
negro  mammy,  with  one  of  his  father  in  full  uniform  and  a 
singularly  beautiful  head  that  I  am  sure  from  the  likeness  of 

[236] 


A   HANDFUL   OF   MEMORIES 

the  brow  and  the  set  of  the  eyes  must  have  been  his  mother, 
though  here  the  old  slave  could  not  or  would  not  help  me. 
I  rescued,  too,  for  Margarita,  a  rich  carved  mahogany  chair 
from  a  cow  stall  ("ole  Marse  Lockwood's  pay  chair")  and 
a  graceful,  brass-handled  serving-table,  "what  his  grandpa 
done  leave  fo'  li'l  Marse  Lockwood  fer  ter  rec'leck'  him  by." 
I  picked  up  a  silver  cup,  at  a  roadside  auction  (and  bid 
high  for  it  against  a  Fifth  Avenue  dealer)  engraved  with  his 
mother's  coat-of-arms,  and  shamelessly  inveigled  Margarita 
into  taking  it,  later,  and  giving  me  in  return  the  silver  bowl 
that  stood  for  so  long  under  the  Henner  etching.  It  stands 
there  still,  but  not  in  the  old  place.  Not  Caliban,  but  Hodg- 
son fills  that  bowl  to-day  and  every  day  that  I  am  in  America 
with  the  most  beautiful  flowers  Uncle  Winthrop's  money 
can  buy;  though  Lockwood  Prynne  no  longer  lies  in  the 
army  cot  that  faces  it,  one  of  his  best  friends  does — a  friend 
who  loves  him  no  less,  that  he  never  saw  his  face. 

Well,  we  got  that  furnace  in  and  fifty  tons  of  coal,  too, 
towed  over  in  an  old  scow  and  binned  down  in  the  cellar,  and 
when  I  saw  the  bills  for  this  last,  I  received  the  impression 
(which  I  have  never  been  able  wholly  to  abandon)  that  I 
must  have  been  underpaid  for  those  coal-lands! 

Many  a  time  have  we  discussed  it  since,  with  a  curious, 
frightened  wonder:  why  should  that  furnace  have  seemed 
so  all-important  to  me?  At  best  we  expected  to  spend  but 
few  days  at  the  Island  when  it  could  have  been  necessary; 
Margarita  had  grown  up  among  Atlantic  winters  and  had 
more  times  than  she  could  count  broken  the  ice  in  her  bed- 
room ewer;  such  a  luxurious  whim  would  never  have  oc- 
curred to  Roger,  who,  like  most  men  of  his  type,  expected 
every  one  to  be  as  hardy  as  himself — how  many  generations 
of  his  ancestors  had  stoically  toasted  their  shins  while  their 
backs  were  freezing!  It  must  be,  as  Margarita  teasingly  in- 
sists, that  my  pathetic  care  for  my  rheumatic  old  bones 
was  at  the  bottom  of  it  all,  and  that  I  was  rapidly 
assimilating  one  of  the  cardinal  doctrines  of  the  swollen 

[237] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


purse,  that  no  sum  could  be  ill  spent  when  spent  for  my 
comfort. 

Well,  well,  let  it  go  at  that — to  use  the  bluff,  pertinent 
phrase  of  the  present  day.  Though  Barbara  Jencks  would 
have  died  before  she  had  let  it  go  at  anything  like  that,  I  as- 
sure you,  and  has  spent  many  an  eager  moment  of  shy,  per- 
sistent effort  to  make  me  comprehend  the  inscrutable  and 
sleepless  interest  of  Providence,  an  interest  which  had  in- 
tended, from  the  time  of  the  Exodus,  if  I  seize  her  idea 
correctly,  that  a  hot-air  plant  should  complete  the  summer 
home  of  Roger  Bradley — a  man  who  had  less  interest  in 
Providence  than  anyone  I  know!  Poor  Barbara!  As  I 
hung  about  the  house  that  mellow  autumn,  I  fell,  more  than 
once,  into  musing  laughter,  as  here  and  there  some  piece  of 
furniture,  some  picture  or  dish  or  oddment  brought  back  to 
me  her  uncounted,  endless  assaults  on  Margarita's  simple, 
healthy  and  (to  the  orthodox  English  woman)  baseless 
scheme  of  existence.  Not  that  it  should  have  been  dignified 
by  so  philosophical  a  term  as  "  scheme  ":  Margarita  was  given 
to  the  practice  of  life,  not  its  theory.  I  never  tired  of  watch- 
ing the  extraordinary  effect  of  her  downright  mental  processes 
upon  the  mass  of  perfunctory,  inherited  ideas  whose  edges, 
once  sharp-milled  and  fresh  from  some  startling  Mint,  we 
have  dulled  and  misshapen  with  generations  of  unthinking, 
accustomed  barter. 

For  instance,  a  treasure  of  a  Spode  fruit  dish  that  I  had 
picked  up  at  a  dewy  Devonshire  farm,  all  clotted  cream  and 
apple-cheeked  children,  caught  my  eye  as  it  lay  on  the  piano, 
and  I  found  myself  chuckling  as  I  recalled  the  unfortunate 
eddy  of  doctrine  into  which  the  innocent  bit  of  china  had 
whirled  us.  Margarita  had  asked  what  the  quaint  Scriptural 
figures  upon  it  illustrated,  and  Miss  Jencks,  every  ready,  had 
explained  to  her  the  parable  of  the  labourers  in  the  vine- 
yard and  the  marvel  of  the  late  comer's  good  fortune. 

"And  that  is  a  very  beautiful  thought,  my  dear,"  she  con- 
cluded, "is  it  not?" 

[238] 


A    HANDFUL    OF    MEMORIES 

Margarita  stared  at  her  in  frank  surprise. 

"Beautiful?"  she  echoed,  "you  call  it  beautiful  that  so 
many  poor  men  should  work  hard  so  long,  and  then  have  to 
see  the  lazy  ones  who  came  in  late  be  paid  as  much  as  they 
for  one-tenth  as  much  work  ?  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean 
by  beautiful;  it  was  certainly  very  unfair." 

"My  dear,  my  dear!"  poor  Barbara  fluttered,  "it  had 
the  approval  of  our  Lord,  remember." 

"He  was  probably  not  one  of  the  ones  who  had  worked 
all  day,  then,"  Margarita  replied  blandly. 

"It  was  not  an  actual  occurrence,"  said  Miss  Jencks,  a 
little  coldly,  as  Roger's  irrepressible  chuckle  echoed  from 
the  porch  outside,  "it  was  merely  a  parable — a  lesson." 

"Oh!"  (The  exquisite,  falling  melody  of  that  simple 
monosyllable  expressed  so  perfectly,  through  such  a  trained 
larynx,  all  the  sudden  lack  of  interest!)  " It  never  happened, 
then?  So  of  course  it  does  not  matter.  But  why  do  you 
call  it  a  lesson,  Miss  Jencks?" 

"Because  it  teaches  Christian  charity,"  said  Barbara 
firmly. 

Margarita  turned  away  and  dismissed  the  subject. 

"  If  I  ever  hired  myself  to  anybody,  I  would  rather  he  had 
been  taught  fairness  than  Christian  charity,"  she  observed, 
and  left  Miss  Jencks  clutching  the  fruit  plate  pathetically, 
her  eyes  fixed  hopelessly  on  me.  For  it  was  always  my 
delicate  task  to  soothe  the  poor  lady  after  these  theological 
encounters:  Roger's  uncompromising  treatment  of  the 
situation  had  a  way  of  uncomfortably  resembling  his  wife's! 

"You  know,  dear  Miss  Jencks,"  I  began,  as  seriously  as  I 
could,  "she  is  not  really  cynical — she  is  no  more  irreverent 
than  a  child  would  be.  Surely  some  of  your  pupils,  some- 
times ..." 

"Never,  Mr.  Jerrolds,  never!"  the  bulwark  of  the  Gov- 
ernor-General's family  protested  tearfully,  "never,  I  assure 
you!" 

"Well,  well,"  I  said,  "it's  all  the  same — they  might  have. 

[239] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


You  see,  she  pays  these  things  the  great  compliment  of  tak- 
ing them  seriously — and  literally.  And  they  wouldn't  work, 
Miss  Jencks,  some  of  them,  if  one  tried  them,  you  know. 
Just  consider  the  labour  unions  for  one  thing:  suppose 
Roger  were  to  pay  off  his  workmen  on  that  principle — they'd 
fling  his  money  in  his  face." 

"Then  what  would  you  say  to  the  Prodigal  Son?"  she 
shot  at  me  defiantly. 

"I  say  that  it's  very  beautiful  and  that  I'm  old  enough  to 
hope  it  may  be  true,"  I  told  her,  "but  for  heaven's  sake, 
Miss  Jencks,  don't  try  Mrs.  Bradley  with  it — not  just  now, 
at  any  rate!" 

Then  there  was  her  guitar,  a  small  one,  of  lemon-coloured 
pear  wood,  curiously  inlaid:  Whistler  got  it  for  her  in  one 
of  those  old  pawn  shops  near  the  London  wharves,  and  we 
used  to  wonder  what  happy  sailor,  burnt  and  eager  for  the 
town,  had  brought  it  for  what  waiting  girl  all  the  long  miles, 
and  how  it  had  crept  at  last,  ashamed  and  stained,  into  that 
dingy  three-balled  tomb  of  so  many  hopes  and  keepsakes. 
He  sketched  her  in  charcoal,  dressed  (he  would  have  it)  in 
black,  with  a  Spanish  comb  in  her  hair  and  the  guitar  on  a 
broad  ribbon  of  strange  deep  Chinese  blue;  behind  her,  on 
an  aerially  slender  perch,  stands  a  gaudy  Mexican  parrot. 
It  does  not  look  like  her  to  us  who  know  her  well  (though, 
curiously  enough,  all  strangers  consider  it  an  extremely  fine 
likeness)  but  as  a  tour  de  force  it  is  remarkable,  and  amongst 
the  plain,  Saxon  furnishings  of  the  Island  living-room  it  stands 
out  with  an  extraordinary  vividness — an  unmistakable  bit 
of  Southern  Europe,  the  perfectly  conscious  sophistication  of 
old  cities  and  sunny,  secret  streets,  worn  uneven  and  dis- 
coloured before  Raleigh  started  across  seas. 

Roger  never  liked  it,  I  believe,  and  I  have  always  suspected 
the  impish  James  of  deliberately  putting  us  face  to  face  with 
Margarita's  foreign  strain  and  the  tiny,  deep  gulf  that  cut  her 
off,  in  some  parts  of  her  nature,  so  hopelessly  from  us.  And 
he  made  us  see  it,  too,  that  Puck  of  all  painters,  even  as  he 
[240] 


HE    SKETCHED    HER    IN    CHARCOAL,    DRESSED    (HE    WOULD 
HAVE    IT)    IN    BLACK 


A   HANDFUL   OF    MEMORIES 

had  intended,  and  we  were  forced  to  thank  him  for  it,  for  it 
was  too  beautiful  to  have  gone  undone,  and  he  knew  it. 
And  Jimmie's  dead,  worse  luck,  and  one  of  his  most  de- 
voted collectors  told  me  last  week  that  he  really  thought  the 
psychological  moment  for  selling  out  had  arrived,  for  he'd 
never  go  any  higher !  And  we're  all  grass,  that  to-day  is  and 
to-morrow  goes  into  the  oven,  and  there's  no  doubt  of  it,  my 
brothers. 

But  how  she  used  to  sing  O  sole  mio,  with  that  sweet, 
piercing  Italian  cry,  a  real  cri  du  cceur  (except  for  the  trifling 
fact  that  there  was  no  more  heart  in  it,  really,  than  there  is 
in  most  Italian  singing !  I  suppose  that  while  the  art  of  song 
remains  among  the  children  of  men,  that  particular  child  who 

is  able  to  throw  his  voice  most  easily  into  what  Mme.  M i 

used  to  call  "ze  frront  of  ze  face"  and  detach  it  from  the 
throat,  where  the  true  feelings  lie  gripped,  will  continue  to 
thrill  the  other  children  with  his  or  her  "  heart  in  the  voice! ") 
And  how  she  would  drag  the  rhythm,  deliciously,  intention- 
ally, and  shade  the  downward  notes,  and  hang  a  breath  too 
long  on  the  phrase-ends,  as  only  Italians  dare!  And  how 
the  distilled  essence  of  Italy  dripped  out  of  those  luscious, 
tender,  mocking  folk-songs,  till  the  vineyards  steeped  before 
us,  and  the  white  city-squares  baked  in  the  noon  sun,  and 
the  ardent  sailor  sang  to  his  brown  girl  over  the  quaint, 
bobbing,  weighted  nets! 

The  men  who  dug  the  ice-house  and  piled  the  coast  wall 
and  blasted  out  trenches  for  draining  would  stop  and  lean  on 
their  picks,  when  her  resonant,  golden  humming,  like  a 
drowsy  contralto  bee,  floated  out  from  the  verandah  vines 
to  them:  I  have  seen  their  faces  clear  and  their  dull  eyes 
focus  suddenly  on  some  distant,  darling  memory,  while  they 
dropped  back  for  a  precious  minute  into  the  past  that  you 
think  is  all  bread  and  cheese  and  beer,  because,  forsooth,  they 
never  sat  beside  you  in  white  gloves  when  Margarita  sang! 

Go  to — there  was  Spring  and  a  girl  for  every  man  of  them, 
once,  and  both  were  the  same  as  yours. 

[241] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


I  had  to  go  into  her  room  at  that  time,  to  make  sure  that 
the  floor  should  not  be  unduly  marred  and  that,  according 
to  the  best  of  my  poor  judgment  (Roger  should  have  planned 
it  all,  as  a  matter  of  fact)  the  registers  might  be  inserted  in 
the  best  places;  and  as  I  moved  among  the  dainty  luxuries 
that  replaced  the  almost  sordid  bareness  of  that  room  when 
I  had  first  seen  it,  I  realised,  with  surprise  but  with  clear 
certainty,  that  the  change  was  only  apparent,  not  deep  or 
inherent.  They  were  all  there,  to  be  sure,  the  pretty  para- 
phernalia that  modern  woman  (and  ancient,  too,  for  the 
matter  of  that!)  has  found  necessary  to  preserve  and  augment 
her  mystery  and  charm;  ivory  and  silver  and  crystal  and 
fluted  frills  and  scented  silk.  Oh,  yes,  they  were  all  there,  but 
there  was  no  atmosphere  of  Margarita  amongst  them  all :  she 
had  escaped  out  of  them  and  given  them  the  slip  as  effectu- 
ally as  in  the  old,  bare  days  of  the  brush  and  comb  and  the 
print  gown  on  a  peg  in  the  unscented  closet.  She  was  simply 
not  there,  that  was  all,  and  the  most  infatuated  lover  in  all 
the  Decameron  would  have  felt  that  here  was  not  the  place  for 
self-indulgent  raptures.  Margarita  used  her  sleeping-room 
as  a  snail  uses  his  shell  or  a  bird  its  nest:  it  was  impersonal, 
deserted,  out  of  commission,  now — the  room,  merely,  of  a 
beautiful  woman,  who  might  have  been  any  woman,  with  a 
woman's  need  of  comfort,  warmth,  clear  air,  and  cleanliness 
pushed  to  an  arrogance  of  physical  purity. 

My  mother's  bedroom  was  her  own  as  definitely  as  her 
blue-veined,  pointed  hands;  Sue  Paynter's,  into  which  I  went 
once  to  lift  out  her  little  son  in  one  of  his  illnesses,  was  like 
no  one's  else  in  the  world,  individual,  intense;  even  old 
Madam  Bradley's,  in  its  clear  whites  and  polished  dark  wood, 
translated  to  my  boyish,  awed  soul,  a  sense  of  her  impene- 
trable character. 

But  not  so  Margarita's.    It  was  furnished  and  decorated 

in  grey-blue  tints,  because  I  had  suggested  this.     It  had 

odd  touches  of  greyish  rose,  because  Whistler  had  insisted 

on  it.     It  was  fitted  with  old  mahogany,  because  Roger 

[242] 


A  HANDFUL  OF  MEMORIES 

liked  this  and  collected  it  here  and  there.  But  of  all  the 
personality  that  her  father-lover  had  known  how  to  build 
into  his  home  of  exile,  there  was  absolutely  none. 

Was  it  because  there  were  no  work-baskets,  spilling  lace 
and  bits  of  ribbon,  no  photographs,  no  keepsakes,  hideous 
perhaps,  but  dear  for  what  they  represent,  no  worn  girl- 
hood's books,  no  shamefaced  toys,  lingering  from  the  nursery, 
no  litter  of  any  other  member  of  her  family  ?  Perhaps. 
Mme.  Modjeska,  then,  and  even  now  one  of  the  greatest 
actresses  on  our  stage,  called  it  an  unwomanly  room,  but 
I  am  not  quite  sure  that  this  is  precisely  what  she  meant. 

No,  the  most  vivid  impression  the  room  could  make  upon 
me  was  one  that  brings  a  reminiscent  chuckle  even  to-day. 
As  my  eye  fell  on  the  antique  dressing-table,  I  seemed  to  see, 
suddenly  and  laughably,  Margarita,  sweeping  down  the 
stairs,  enveloped  in  a  billowy  peignoir,  her  hair  loose,  her 
eyes  flashing  furiously,  in  her  extended  finger  and  thumb, 
held  as  one  would  hold  a  noxious  adder,  a  thin  navy-blue 
necktie. 

"  Is  that  yours?  "  she  demanded  tragically  of  her  husband. 

"  Why,  yes,  I  believe  it  is,"  said  Roger,  with  the  grave 
politeness  that  years  of  intimacy  could  never  take  from  him. 

"  I  found  it  on  my  dressing-table  1"  she  thundered,  and  her 
voice  echoed  like  an  angry  vault,  "on — my — dressing-table!" 

She  dropped  it  like  a  toad  at  his  feet,  swept  us  all  with 
the  lightning  of  her  eyes,  coldly,  distastefully,  and  swam  up 
the  stairs,  an  avenging  goddess,  deaf  to  Roger's  matter-of- 
fact  apology,  blind  to  Miss  Jencks's  deprecating  blushes. 
As  for  me,  so  under  the  spell  of  that  voice  have  I  always 
been,  that  I  swear  I  thought  her  hardly  used  — tht  darling 
vixen! 


[243! 


PART  EIGHT 

IN  WHICH  THE   RIVER   RUSHES   INTO 
PERILOUS   RAPIDS 


Come,  my  mother  that  carried  me, 
Make  me  to-night  an  olden  spell! 
Try  if  my  witch  wife  loves  the  Sea, 
Or  she'll  choose  the  waves  or  she'll 

choose  for  me, 
Then  hey,  for  heaven  or  ho,  for  hell! 

Circle  the  Cross  on   the   midnight 
sand, 

Heap  the  fire  and  mutter  the  charm, 
Call  her  out  to  ye,  soul  in  hand, 
Blind  and  bare  to  the  moon  she'll 

stand, 
Then  out  to  the  sea  or  in  to  my  arm! 

Sir  Hugh  and  the  Mermaiden. 


[245] 


CHAPTER   XXVII 
WE   BRING  OUR    PEARL  TO   MARKET 

I  DID  not  hear  Margarita  sing  in  opera  till  the  night  oi 
her  dibut  in  Faust.  Roger,  on  the  contrary,  was  allowed  to 
attend  the  last  rehearsals:  Margarita  honestly  wished  for 
his  criticism,  which  she  knew  from  the  very  fact  of  his  utter 
aloofness  from  her  professional  interests  would  be  perfectly 
unbiased  and  sincere.  It  was  not  without  a  secret  thrill  of 
pleasure  through  my  disappointment  that  I  acquiesced  in 
her  decree;  I  knew  that  she  would  be  nervous  with  me, 
from  my  very  sympathy  with  her. 

I  can  see  the  Opera  now — the  lights,  the  jewels,  the  mou- 
staches, the  white  shirt-bosoms,  the  lorgnettes,  the  fat 
women  with  programmes,  the  great,  shrouding  curtain. 

Sue  was  there,  pallid  with  excitement,  and  Tip  Elder,  who 
had  come  over  for  a  much-needed  holiday,  and  Walter  Carter, 
who  had  been  on  an  errand  to  Germany,  and  who  had  (of  all 
unexpected  people!)  convinced  Madam  Bradley  that  her  own 
hard  pride  should  no  longer  be  forced  to  regulate  her  chil- 
dren's enmities,  and  come  to  extend  the  olive-branch  to 
Roger. 

I  was  as  nervous  as  could  be  and  Roger,  I  think,  was  not 
quite  so  calm  as  he  seemed  and  gnawed  his  lower  lip  steadily. 

But  Margarita,  one  would  suppose,  had  not  only  no  nerves 
but  not  even  any  self-consciousness.  She  told  us  afterward 
that  before  the  curtain  rose  she  was  nearly  paralysed  with 
terror  and  was  convinced  that  her  voice  had  gone — it  caught 
in  her  throat.  She  could  not  remember  the  words  of  the 
Jewel  Song  and  her  stomach  grew  icy  cold — if  Roger  had  been 

[247] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


there,  she  said,  she  would  have  begged  him  to  take  her  away 
and  hide  her  on  the  Island!  But  he  was  not  there.  No  one 
was  there  but  Madame  and  her  maid,  and  she  could  not 
run  away  alone. 

When  she  sat  spinning  at  her  wheel  behind  the  layers 
of  gauze,  and  Faust  saw  her  in  his  dream,  her  legs  shook  so 
that  she  could  not  work  the  treadle.  But  when  she  paced 
slowly  onto  the  scene  in  her  grey  gown  all  worked  with  tiny, 
nearly  invisible  little  butterflies — they  had  made  her  put 
aside  the  big  ones — she  was  as  calm  and  composed  as  the 
chorus  around  her  and  her  voice  was  as  beautiful  as  I  have 
ever  heard  it. 

"The  child  was  born  for  the  stage,  there  is  no  doubt!" 
Sue  whispered  to  me  excitedly,  and  I  nodded  hastily,  not 
wishing  to  lose  a  note  or  a  movement. 

It  was  her  best-known  part  and  she  was  very  lovely  and 
magnetic  in  it,  but  I  do  not  think  it  really  suited  her  so  well 
as  the  Wagner  dramas  would  have,  later.  It  is  with  Mar- 
guerite as  a  great  English  comedienne  expressed  it  to  me 
some  years  later,  of  Juliet:  one  must  be  forty  to  play  it 
properly — and  then  one  is  too  old  to  play  it  properly ! 

But  what  a  gait  she  had!  Her  stride  just  fitted  the  stage, 
her  carriage  of  neck  and  head  was  such  as  great  artists  have 
worked  years  to  attain — and  she  was  unconscious  of  it. 
Her  eyes  looked  sky-blue  under  the  blonde  wig,  and  the 
blonde  tints  were  lovely,  if  not  so  fascinatingly  surprising  as 
her  own. 

When  she  stopped,  fixed  her  great  eyes  upon  Faust 
reproachfully  and  sang,  like  a  sweet,  truthful  chM, 

Non,  monsieur,  je  ne  suis  bellet 
Ni  belle,  ni  demoiselle  .... 

a  little  sigh  of  pleasure  ran  through  the  audience:  she  won 
them  then  and  there.  It  seemed  incredible  that  she  was 
acting — it  seemed  that  she  must  be  real  and  that  the  others 
were  trying  to  surround  her  with  the  reality  she  expected, 
[248] 


WE  BRING  OUR  PEARL  TO  MARKET 

as  best  they  could.  She  had  the  sweet  purity  of  tone 
— the  candour,  if  I  may  so  call  it,  often  associated 
with  delicate,  small  voices  and  singers  of  cool,  rather 
inexpressive  temperaments.  But  BrilnhUde  was  the  part 
for  her,  and  BriinhUde  was  not  cool  and  anything  but  in- 
expressive. 

The  only  Marguerite  I  have  ever  seen  since  that  resembled 
hers  was  Mme  Calve"'s,  and  the  French  artist  seemed  studied 
and  conscious  beside  Margarita.  You  see,  she  was  young, 
she  was  sincere  and  ingenuous,  she  was  slender  and  beauti- 
ful— and  she  had  a  fresh  and  lovely  voice,  well  trained,  into 
the  bargain.  She  would  never  have  made  a  great  coloratura 
soprano.  Neither  her  voice  nor  her  temperament  inclined 
to  this.  She  belonged,  properly  speaking,  to  the  advance 
guard  of  the  natural  method,  the  school  of  intelligence  and 
subtle  dramatic  skill.  I  cannot  imagine  Margarita  a  stout, 
tightly  laced,  high-heeled  creature,  advancing  to  the  foot- 
lights, jewelled  finger-tips  on  massive  chest,  emitting  a  series 
of  staccato  fireworks  interspersed  with  trills  and  scales 
apropos  of  nothing  in  this  world  or  the  next. 

Such  performances  constituted  Roger's  main  objection  to 
the  opera,  and  though  he  was  considered  Philistine  once, 
it  is  amusing  to  see  how  the  tide  of  even  popular  opinion 
is  setting  his  way,  now. 

So  in  the  great  final  trio,  Margarita  did  not  show  at  her 
best,  perhaps;  the  situation  seemed  strained,  unreal,  and 
the  final  shriek  a  little  high  for  her.  But  oh,  what  a  lovely 
creature  she  was,  alone  in  her  cell!  What  lines  her  supple 
figure  gave  the  loose  prison  robe,  what  poignant,  simple, 
cruelly  deserted  grief,  poured  from  her  big,  girlish  eyes! 
And  I  do  not  believe  anyone  will  ever  again  make  such  ex- 
quisite pathos  of  the  poor  creature's  crazed  return  to  her  first 
meeting  with  her  lover.  So  clearly  did  she  picture  to  herself 
this  early  scene  that  we  all  saw  it  too,  and  lived  it  over  again 
with  the  poor  child. 

"Ni  belle,  ni  demoiselle  .  .    " 

[249] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


It  was  the  whole  of  love  betrayed,  abandoned,  yet  loving 
and  forgiving,  that  little  phrase;  and  I  staunchly  insist  that 
the  good  Papa  Gounod  deserves  credit  for  it,  sentimentalist 
though  he  be! 

It  was  after  the  garden  love-scene  that  she  won  her 
recalls,  over  and  over  again.  Above  the  great  sheaf  of  hot- 
house daisies  I  sent  up  to  the  footlights  she  bowed  and  bowed 
and  bowed  again  and  smiled,  and  the  jewels  flashed  on  her 
white  shoulders  and  the  yellow  braids  shook  at  her  deep, 
triumphant  breaths,  as  she  beamed  out  over  us  all,  the 
wonderful,  all-embracing  smile  of  the  born  artist,  that  can- 
not be  taught.  Part  of  that  brilliant  smile  came  straight  into 
my  misted  eyes,  back  in  the  loge,  and  so  extraordinary  is 
the  power  of  such  a  success,  so  completely  does  that  row  of 
footlights  cut  off  the  victor  from  us  who  applaud  below, 
that  I,  even  I,  who  had  literally  taught  this  girl  some  of  the 
ordinary  reserves  of  decent  society,  who  had  found  her  a  sav- 
age (socially  speaking)  only  two  years  ago,  now  bowed  low 
to  her,  dazed,  humble  as  the  man  beside  me  who  never 
saw  her  before. 

How  they  pounded  and  cried,  those  amusing,  sophis- 
ticated, babyish  Parisians! 

"Brava,  la  petite!"  I  hear  the  old  gentleman  now  that 
turned  to  me  in  amazement,  chattering  like  a  well-preserved, 
middle-aged  monkey;  "but  it  is  that  it  is  an  American,  they 
tell  me?  fa  y  est,  alors!  It  is  extraordinary,  then,  im- 
fayable!  Je  n'en  reviens  pas! " 

"And  why,  Monsieur?"  I  asked. 

"For  the  reason,  simply,  that  it  is  well  known  how  they 
are  cold,  those  women,  cold  as  ice,  every  one.  But  this  one — 
Monsieur,  I  have  seen  many  Marguerites,  I  who  speak  to 
you,  but  never  before  has  it  arrived  to  me  to  envy  that  fat 
Faust!" 

And  I  (to  whom  he  spoke)  believed  him  thoroughly,  I 
assure  you.  Though  I  doubt  if  the  portly  tenor  was  much 
flattered,  for  he  had  accepted  the  role  with  the  idea  of 

[250] 


IT   WAS   AFTER   THE   GARDEN   LOVE-SCENE   THAT 
SHE   WON   HER   RECALLS 


WE  BRING  OUR  PEARL  TO  MARKET 

carrying  off  the  honours  of  the  evening,  and  exhibited,  in  the 
event,  not  a  little  of  that  acrimony  which  is  so  curiously  in- 
separable from  any  collection  of  the  world's  great  song-birds. 
Ever  since  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young,  she  has  been 
so  notoriously  at  variance  with  her  fellow-musicians  as  to 
force  the  uninitiated  into  all  sorts  of  cynical  conclusions! 
Such  as  the  necessity  for  some  kind  of  handicap  for  all  these 
harmonies,  some  make-weight  for  these  unnaturally  perfect 
chords.  And  it  is  but  due  to  the  various  artists  to  admit  that 
they  supply  these  counter-checks  bravely. 

Well  I  suppose  they  would  be  too  happy  if  it  were  all  as 
harmonious  as  it  sounds,  and  we  should  all  (the  poor  songless 
rest  of  us)  kill  ourselves  for  jealousy!  And  if  the  fat  Faust 
had  really  been  as  supremely  blissful  as  he  should  have  been 
when  Margarita,  with  that  indescribably  lovely  bending 
twist  of  her  elastic  body,  drooped  out  of  her  canvas,  rose- 
wreathed  cottage  window  and  threw  her  white  arms  about  his 
neck  in  the  most  touching  and  suggestive  abandon  T  have 
ever  seen  on  the  operatic  stage — why,  we  should  have  been  re- 
gretfully obliged  to  tear  him  to  pieces,  Roger  and  I  and  Walter 
Carter  (I  am  afraid)  and  the  well-preserved  Frenchman! 

She  was  not  so  philosophical  as  Goethe  nor  so  saccharine  as 
Gounod,  our  Margarita,  and  I  don't  know  that  I  am  more 
sentimental  than  another;  but  when  the  poor  child  in  all  her 
love  and  ignorance  and  simple  intoxication  with  that  sweet 
and  terrible  brew  that  Dame  Nature  never  ceases  concoct- 
ing in  her  secret  still-rooms,  handed  her  white  self  over  so 
trustfully  to  the  plump  and  eager  tenore  robusto,  a  sudden 
disgust  and  fury  at  the  imperturbable  unfairness  of  that 
same  inscrutable  Dame  washed  over  me  like  a  wave  and  I 
could  have  wept  like  the  silly  Frenchman. 

Do  not  be  too  scornful  of  that  sad  and  sordid  little  stage 
story,  ye  rising  generation — it  is  not  for  nothing  that  the 
great  stupid  public  of  older  days,  ignorant  alike  of  Teutonics 
and  chromatics,  but  wise  in  pity  and  terror,  as  old  Aristotle 
knew,  took  it  to  their  commonplace  hearts!  Do  not  trouble 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


yourselves  to  explain  to  me  that  Gretchen  was  but  an 
episode  in  a  great  cosmic  philosophy;  I  knew  it  once,  when 
I  was  young  like  you.  But  I  am  nearly  sixty  now — worse 
luck! — and  I  see  why  the  cosmic  philosophy  has  been  quietly 
buried  and  the  episode  remains  immortal.1  And  so  will  you 
some  day. 

It  was  a  great  success  for  Madame  and  she  basked  in  it; 
she  had  even  a  compliment  for  Roger.  In  our  gay  little  sup- 
per, afterward,  we  had  all  a  kind  word — an  almost  patheti- 
cally kind  word — for  Roger.  Margarita  herself  had  never 
been  so  attentive  to  him,  so  eager  for  his  ungrudging  praise, 
so  openly  affectionate  with  him.  He  was  very  kind,  very 
gentle,  but  in  a  quiet  way  he  discouraged  her  demonstrative 
sweetness  and  led  her  to  talk  of  her  professional  future. 
In  her  eyes  as  she  looked  at  him  over  her  wine-glass  I  seemed 
to  see  something  I  had  never  seen  before,  a  sort  of  frightened 
pity;  not  the  terror  of  a  child  cut  off  by  the  crowd  from  its 
guardian,  but  rather  the  fear  of  one  who  sees  a  one-time 
comrade  on  the  other  side  of  a  widening  flood,  and  regrets 
and  fears  for  him  and  pities  his  loss  and  loneliness,  but  is 
driven  by  Destiny  and  cannot  cross  over.  I  wondered  if  the 
others  saw  it  too,  but  dared  not  discover. 

It  was  not  altogether  a  happy  petit  sottper,  you  see ;  I  often 
think  of  it  when  I  assist  at  similar  gatherings,  and  wonder 
to  myself  if  in  all  the  glory  and  under  all  the  triumph  there 
is  not  some  dark  spot  unknown  to  us  flattering  guests,  some 
tiny  gulf  that  is  growing  relentlessly,  though  we  throw  in 
never  so  many  flowers  and  jewels  to  fill  it.  The  wheel  turns 
ever,  and  no  pleasure  of  ours  but  is  built  on  the  shifting  sand 
of  some  one's  pain,  even  as  Alif  told  me. 

We  had  the  Valentin  of  the  opera,  a  dapper  little  French- 
man, with  us  (I  fcrget  his  name:  he  had  been  very  kind 
to  Margarita  and  stood  between  her  and  the  senseless  jealousy 
of  the  big,  handsome  tenor  more  than  once)  and  I  heard  him 

as  we  left  the  table  remark  significantly  to  Mme.  M i, 

with  a  glance  at  Roger, 

[252] 


WE  BRING  OUR  PEARL  TO  MARKET 

"Monsieur  is  not  artiste,  then?" 

"Surely  that  sees  itself?"  returned  the  famous  teacher 
with  a  shrug. 

"Un  mari  complaisant,  alors?"  said  the  baritone  lightly. 

Madame  had  never  liked  Roger,  and  was,  moreover,  a 
somewhat  prejudiced  person,  but  even  her  feelings  could 
not  prevent  the  irrepressible  chuckle  that  greeted  this. 

"Do  not  think  it,  my  friend — jamais  de  la  vie!"  she 
answered  quickly,  with  a  frank  grimace  as  she  caught  my 
eye  and  guessed  that  I  had  overheard. 

No,  one  could  not  image  Roger  as  the  "husband  of  his 
wife."  It  simply  couldn't  be  supposed. 

I  had  very  little  to  say  to  him  that  night,  myself.  I  felt 
clumsy  and  tactless,  somehow,  and  certain  that  what  I 
might  say  woxild  be  too  much  or  too  little. 

It  was  Tip  whose  cheery,  "How  wonderfully  fine  she  was, 
Roger!  How  proud  you  must  be  of  her!"  saved  the  day 
and  gave  us  a  chance  to  shake  hands  and  leave  them  in  the 
flower-filled  coupe. 

Well,  after  that  it  was  all  the  same  thing.  Exercise, 
practice,  performance,  success;  then  sleep,  and  exercise 
again,  da  capo. 

She  was  a  prima  donna  now,  our  little  Margarita,  a  suc- 
cessful artist,  a  public  character.  "Margarita  Josdpha," 
Madame  had  christened  her,  for  twenty  years  ago  simple 
American  surnames  found  no  favour  with  the  impressario, 
and  "cette  cliarmante  Mme.  Josepha"  "artiste  vraiment 
ravissante"  etc.,  etc.,  the  critics  called  her. 

As  Juliet  she  looked  her  loveliest,  as  Marguerite  she  acted 
her  best,  as  A  'ida  she  sang  most  wonderfully.  Indeed  it  was 
this  last  that  captured  London  and  gave  rise  to  the  much 
exaggerated  affair  of  the  Certain  Royal  Personage.  She 
sang  A'ida  twelve  times  in  one  season  (going  to  London 
from  Paris)  and  the  boys  whistled  the  airs  through  the  streets 
and  the  bands  played  from  it  whenever  she  rode  in  the  Park 
I  myself  saw  the  diamond  bracelet  Miss  Jencks  returned 

[253] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


to  the  Duke  of  S (we  did  not  tell  Roger,  by  mutual 

consent,  till  much  later)  and  the  Queen's  pearl-set  brooch 
when  she  sang  at  Windsor  marked  at  least  one  satisfying 
unanimity  among  members  of  the  royal  family. 

I  took  Mary,  long  afterward,  to  hear  Mme.  G i  in 

the  part  Margarita  made  famous  in  London,  and  when  the 
tears  rolled  down  the  child's  face  as  poor  Aida  (that  barbaric 
romanesque)  dies  in  melody,  portly  though  starving,  and 
unconvincingly  pale,  I  wished  she  might  have  seen  her 
mother.  There  was  a  death!  Nothing  in  Aida' s  life  could 
possibly  have  become  her  like  Margarita's  leaving  of  it,  I  am 
sure. 

Roger  ceased  to  go  after  the  first  performances,  and  indeed 
he  was  very  busy,  and  crossed  the  ocean  more  than  once  in 
the  American  interests  of  his  French  and  English  clientele. 
But  whoever  stopped  at  home  or  went,  whoever  applauded  or 
yawned,  whoever  approved  of  the  present  status  of  the 
Bradley  family  or  disapproved,  one  gaunt  figure  never  left 
Margarita's  side  from  the  moment  she  left  her  door  till  she 
returned  to  it  (except  for  the  inevitable  separations  of  the 
actual  stage-scene,  and  I  think  she  regretted  the  necessity  for 
these!)  This  figure  was  Barbara  Jencks's,  and  hers  were 
the  cool,  uncompromising  eyes  into  which  the  enraptured 
devotee  gazed  when  he  followed  his  card  into  the  drawing- 
room,  hers  the  strong  and  knuckly  hands  that  put  his  flowers 
into  water  and  his  more  valuable  expressions  of  regard  back 
into  their  velvet  cases,  previous  to  re-addressing  them.  She 
drove  with  Margarita,  when  Sue  Paynter  did  not,  and  would 
have  ridden  with  her,  I  verily  believe,  had  not  Carter  and 
I  volunteered  to  supply  that  deficiency. 

It  was  she  who  received  that  astonished  and,  I  fear, 
disappointed  kiss  from  the  German  officer  at  Brussels,  when 
the  students  drew  Margarita's  carriage  home  from  the  opera 
house  after  her  astonishing  triumph  in  the  last  act  of  Sieg- 
fried. It  was  an  absurd  part  for  her — she  had  never  done 
Elsa  nor  Elizabeth,  and  Mme.  M i  was  very  angry  with 

[254] 


WE  BRING  OUR  PEARL  TO  MARKET 

her.  Herr  M 1,  the  great  director,  spent  the  summer 

in  Italy  and  Switzerland  and  was  with  our  party  nearly  all 
of  the  time.  Purely  to  please  himself  he  taught  Margarita 
the  role  of  BriinhUde  hi  Siegfried  and  insisted  on  her  singing 
it  that  winter  in  Brussels  under  him.  It  was  wonderful,  and 
showed  me  what  her  real  forte  was  to  be.  She  was  BriinhUde, 
she  did  not  need  to  act  it.  How  the  Master  himself  would 
have  revelled  in  her! 

She  was  very  teachable — one  of  the  most  certain  indica- 
tions of  her  great  capacities.  Her  Marguerite  was  almost 
entirely  her  own,  for  she  had  not  learned  how  to  use  dramatic 
instruction;  her  A'ida  was  almost  Madame's  own,  for  she 
had  learned,  then,  and  besides,  did  not  understand  the 
character;  her  BriinhUde  was  herself,  trained  and  assisted 
into  the  best  canons  of  interpretation  by  a  loyal  Wagnerian. 
It  is  a  short  part,  of  course,  but  it  showed  what  she  could 
have  done  with  the  rest  of  it.  At  thirty-five  she  could  have 
done  the  whole  Ring;  at  forty  I  believe  no  one  could  have 
equalled  her. 

Carter  got  himself  snarled  hopelessly  into  a  tangle  with 
the  government  officials  in  Berlin  (he  was  no  diplomat, 
though  a  good  fellow,  and  wild  about  Margarita,  so  that 
poor  little  Alice  had  more  than  one  bad  quarter-hour,  I'm 
afraid)  and  it  took  Roger  a  great  deal  of  Bradley  influence 
with  the  American  consul  and  a  lot  of  patient  correspondence 
to  unravel  his  unlucky  brother-in-law.  This  gave  Roger  a 
good  excuse  for  being  in  and  near  Germany;  whether  he 
would  have  stayed  without  it,  I  don't  know. 

The  work  on  Napoleon  was  done:  he  had  laboured  over 
it  in  Rome  during  the  summer,  and  Margarita  had  been 
very  sweet,  refusing  more  than  one  invitation  (at  Sue  Payn- 
ter's  earnest  request)  to  stay  with  him.  But  it  was  only  too 
evident  that  she  did  not  wholly  wish  to  stay  and  that  such  a 
situation  could  not  last  long.  Herr  M 1  kept  her  inter- 
ested, and  Seidl,  whom  he  sent  for  to  hear  her  practising 
for  Siegfried,  was  most  enthusiastic  about  her  and  displayed 

[255] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


his  admiration  a  little  too  strongly  for  our  peace  of  mind. 
His  was  a  developing,  forcing  influence,  and  Margarita 
showed  the  effect  of  it  wonderfully;  he  inspired  her  to  her  best 
efforts,  and  Mme.  M i  was  terribly  jealous  of  him.  Per- 
sonally, I  could  not  but  feel  that  his  undoubtedly  great 
influence  upon  her  mind  and  methods  represented  one  of 
his  many  invaluable  contributions  to  the  musical  history 
of  America — but  I  speak  as  an  observer,  merely,  of  an 
American  artist,  not  as  a  husband! 

Roger  and  he  had  what  must  be  confessed  was  a  quarrel 
(though  the  newspaper  accounts  of  a  duel  were,  of  course, 
absurd)  over  the  advisability  of  her  singing  privately  for  a 
young  German  princeling  whom  Seidl  was  very  anxious 
to  honour — he  was  then  introducing  the  Wagnerian  dramas 
into  America  and  had  not  been  long  director  of  the  Metro- 
politan Opera  House,  New  York.  It  all  smoothed  over 
and  we  agreed  to  forget  it,  all  of  us,  but  Seidl 's  pride  was 
hurt  and  Roger  had  done  what  I  had  not  seen  him  do  for 
fifteen  years — lost  his  temper  badly.  He  was  not  pleasant  in 
a  temper,  old  Roger,  like  all  men  of  strong,  controlled  natures, 
and  Margarita  learned  a  lesson  that  day  that  she  never 
forgot,  I  suppose.  I  believe  if  on  the  strength  of  that  im- 
pression he  had  carried  her  off  bodily — flung  her  over  his 
saddle-bow,  as  it  were,  and  ceased  to  respect  her  rights  for 
twenty-four  hours,  we  should  all  have  been  spared  much 
strain  and  suffering.  But  he  regretted  his  violence  and  told 
her  so,  which  was  fatal,  or  so  it  seemed  to  me.  There  are 
occasions  when  not  to  take  advantage  of  a  woman  is  to  be 
unfair  to  her,  and  Margarita  was  very  much  a  woman. 

Well,  well,  it's  all  over  now,  and  we  have  no  need  to  regret 
that  we  did  not  try  a  different  way.  It  may  be  we  should 
have  had  to  pay  a  greater  price — for  nothing  lacks  its  price- 
mark  on  life's  counter,  more's  the  pity,  and  if  we  are  deceived 
by  long  credit-accounts,  the  more  fools  we! 


256] 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 
ARABIAN  NIGHTS   IN   ENGLAND 

I  HAD  much  to  reconstruct  that  season  in  regard  to 
Margarita.  I  had  found  her  once  before,  in  Paris,  no  longer 
a  child,  but  a  woman;  I  found  her  now  no  woman  merely, 
but  a  woman  of  the  world.  It  seems  incredible,  indeed,  and 
I  have  puzzled  over  it  many  an  hour  when  the  demon  of  sci- 
atica has  clawed  at  my  hip  and  Hodgson's  faithful  hands 
have  dropped  fatigued  from  his  ministrations.  How  she  did 
it,  how  an  untrained,  emotional  little  savage,  with  hands  as 
quick  to  strike  as  the  paws  of  a  cub  lioness,  with  tongue  as 
unbridled  as  the  tongue  of  a  four-year-old,  with  no  more 
religion  than  a  Parisian  boulevardier,  with  not  one-tenth  the 
instruction  of  a  London  board-school  child — how  such  a 
creature  became  in  two  years  an  (apparently)  finished  product 
of  civilisation,  I  am  at  a  loss  to  comprehend.  That  she  did 
it  is  certain.  My  own  eyes  have  seen  Boston  Brahmins 
drinking  her  tea  gratefully;  my  own  ears  have  heard  New 
York  fashionables  babbling  in  her  drawing-room.  As 
for  London,  she  dominated  one  whole  season,  and  not  to  be 
able  to  bow  to  her,  when  she  rode  on  her  grey  gelding  of  a 
morning,  was  to  argue  oneself  unbowed  to!  Paris  can  never 
forget  her,  for  did  she  not  invent  an  entirely  new  Mar- 
guerite? And  the  Republic  of  Art  is  not  ungrateful.  She 
would  have  been  a  social  success  in  Honolulu  or  Lapland,  the 
witch! 

Whether  her  ancestor  the  prince  or  her  ancestress  the 
actress  made  her  development  possible,  whether  her  Con- 
necticut grandfather  or  her  Virginia  grandmother  taught 

[257] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


her,  how  much  she  owed  her  bandit  father  who  defied  the 
world  and  her  mother,  the  nun,  who  won  it — both  for  love 
— who  shall  say? 

When  I  look  back  on  those  wonderful  months  I  find 
that  the  fanciful  sprite  whose  province  it  is  to  tint  imper- 
ishably  the  choice  pictures  that  shall  brighten  the  last  grey 
days,  has  selected  for  my  gallery  not  those  hours  when  the 
footlights  stretched  between  us,  though  one  would  suppose 
them  beyond  all  doubt  the  most  brilliant,  but  quaint,  unex- 
pected bits,  sudden,  unrehearsed  scenes  that  stand  out  like 
tiny,  jewelled  landscapes  viewed  through  a  reversed  telescope, 
or  white  sudden  statues  at  the  end  of  a  dark  corridor. 

There  is  that  delicious  afternoon  when  we  went,  she  and  I 
and  Sue  Paynter  and  an  infatuated  undergrad,  to  Oxford 
together,  and  ate  strawberries  and  hot  buttered  tea-cake  and 
extraordinary  little  buns  choked  with  plums,  and  honey 
breathing  of  clover  and  English  meadows,  and  drank  count- 
less cups  of  strong  English  tea  with  blobs  of  yellow,  frothing 
cream  atop.  Heavens,  how  we  ate,  and  how  we  talked,  and 
how  tolerantly  the  warm,  grey  walls,  ivy-hung  and  statue- 
niched,  smiled  through  the  long,  opal  English  sunset  at  our 
frivolous  and  ephemeral  chatter!  They  have  listened  to  so 
much,  those  walls,  and  we  shall  perish  and  wax  old  as  a 
garment,  and  still  the  tea  and  strawberries  shall  brew  and 
bloom  along  the  emerald  turf,  and  infatuated  youths  shall 
cross  their  slim,  white-flannelled  legs  and  hang  upon  the  voice 
of  their  charmer.  Not  the  pyramids  themselves  give  me 
that  sense  of  the  continuity  of  the  generations,  the  ebb  and 
flow  of  youth  and  youth's  hot  loves  and  hot  regrets  and  the 
inexorable  twilight  that  makes  placid  middle  age,  as  do  those 
grey  walls  and  blooming  closes  of  what  I  sometimes  think 
is  the  very  heart's  core  of  England.  My  mother's  country- 
men may  fill  London  with  their  national  caravanseries  and 
castles  with  their  nation's  lovely  (if  somewhat  nasal) 
daughters,  but  Oxford  shall  defy  them  forever. 

The  infatuated  undergrad  was  the  owner  of  a  banjo,  an 

[258] 


ARABIAN    NIGHTS   IN    ENGLAND 

instrument  hitherto  unknown  to  Margarita  and  in  regard  to 
which  she  was  vastly  curious,  and  at  her  request  he  and  three 
of  his  mates  blushingly  sang  for  her  some  of  the  American 
negro  melodies  then  so  popular  among  them.  She  was  de- 
lighted with  them  and  soon  began  to  hum  and  croon  un 
consciously,  the  velvet  of  her  voice  mingling  most  piquantly 
with  their  sweet  throaty  English  singing.  By  little  and  little 
her  tones  swelled  louder  and  more  bell-like :  theirs  softened 
gradually,  till  the  harmony,  so  simple,  yet  so  inevitable, 
dwindled  to  the  nearest  echo  and  barely  breathed  the  quaint, 
primitive  words: 

"Nettie  was  a  lady — 
Last  night  she  died  .  .  ." 

Those  deep  tones  of  hers,  stolen  from  envious  contraltos, 
turned  in  our  ears  to  a  mourning  purple;  a  sombre,  tender 
gloom  haunted  us,  and  the  sorrow  of  life,  that  alone  binds  us 
together  who  live,  hung  like  a  lifting  cloud  over  all  who  came 
within  the  magic  radius  of  her  voice.  The  people  gathered 
like  bees  to  a  honeycomb  from  all  sides;  black  caps  and  pale 
clear  draperies  drifted  into  a  wondering  circle;  the  clink 
of  cups,  the  murmur  of  gentle  English  voices  died  softly  away 
and  the  silence  that  was  always  her  royal  right  spread  around 
her. 

"  Toll  the  bell  for  lovely  Nell, 
My  dark  .   .  .   Virginia  .   .   .  bride!" 

Who  they  were,  those  listening  hundreds,  I  could  not  say 
for  my  life.  I  suppose  they  must  have  been  some  garden 
party — I  distinctly  recall  the  gaiters  of  a  bishop  and  the 
coloured  linings  of  more  than  one  doctor's  hood  among  them. 
They  are  as  sudden,  as  unexplained  in  my  memory,  as  those 
crowds  in  dreams,  so  definite,  so  individualised,  where 
haunting,  special  faces  stand  out  and  hands  clasp  and 
shoulders  touch — and  all  fades  away.  Around  the  vivid 
emerald  lawn  they  group  themselves,  and  Margarita,  a  pearl 

[259] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


in  pearly  trailing  laces,  sits  on  a  stone  bench,  defaced  and 
mossy,  in  the  centre,  at  the  back;  the  lads  adore  at  her  feet, 
the  banjo  drops  tinkling  handfuls  of  chords  at  intervals, 
the  birds  flutter  through  the  ivy  overhead,  the  watered  turf 
smells  strong  and  sweet  in  the  fanlike  rays  of  the  slow  sun; 
bright  pencils  of  yellow  light  fall  like  stained  glass  among 
the  immemorial  ivy;  the  day  goes,  softly,  pensively.  .  .  „ 

"Toll  the  bell  for  lovely  Nell  .  .  ." 

"Ah-h-h!"  they  sigh  and  melt,  and  I  see  nothing  more. 
But  the  picture  is  safe. 

Then  there  was  the  famous  house-party  down  in  Surrey, 
whither  the  elect  of  England,  for  some  reason  or  other,  seem 
to  gravitate;  whether  because  the  long  midsummer  Surrey 
days  appear  to  them  the  last  stage  on  the  way  to  a  peaceful, 
well-ordered  heaven,  in  case  they  expect  to  spend  eternity 
there,  or  a  temporary  solace,  in  case  they  don't!  Sue,  to 
whom  all  musical  Europe  opened  its  doors  on  poor  Freder- 
ick's account,  had  taken  Margarita,  to  whom  the  said  doors 
were  gladly  opening  on  her  own,  to  one  of  the  famous 
country  houses  of  a  county  famous  for  such  jewels,  and 
when  Roger  and  I  turned  up  there,  who  should  our  host 
be  but  one  of  my  old  schoolmates  at  Vevay — younger  son  of 
a  younger  son,  then,  and  unimportant  to  a  degree,  but  ad- 
vanced since  by  one  of  those  series  of  family  holocausts  that 
so  change  English  county  history,  to  be  the  head  of  a  great 
house  and  lord  of  more  acres  than  seems  quite  discreet — 
until  one  is  m  a  position  to  slap  the  lord  on  the  shoulder! 

To  Sue  and  me  the  soft-shod  luxury,  the  studious,  ripe 
comfort  of  the  great,  hedged  establishment,  were  frankly 
marvellous,  accustomed  as  we  were  to  the  many  grades  and 
stages  of  domestic  prosperity  between  this  rose-lined  ease 
and  little-a-year;  but  Margarita,  to  whom  the  old  red  jersey 
of  the  Island  was  no  more  real  than  the  barbaric  trappings 
of  A'ida,  who  accepted  shells  from  Caliban  or  diamonds 
from  Mephistopheles  with  equal  sang-froid,  displayed  an 
[260] 


ARABIAN    NIGHTS    IN    ENGLAND 

indifference  to  her  surroundings  as  regal  as  it  was  sincere. 
Indeed,  the  two  simplest  people  at  that  party  (famous  for 
years  in  country-house  annals  as  the  most  brilliant  gather- 
ing of  well-mixed  rank  and  talent  that  ever  fought  with  that 
arch-enemy  of  the  leisured  classes,  Ennui,  and  throttled  him 
successfully  for  sevent  r-two  hours)  were  the  wife  of  an 
American  attorney-at-law  and  the  eldest  son  of  England's 
greatest  duke — the  most  eligible  parti  in  the  United  Kingdom, 
a  youth  of  head-splitting  lineage  and  fabulous  possessions. 

They  sat  together  on  the  floor  of  a  chintz-hung  breakfast 
room,  spinning  peg-tops  all  over  the  polished  wax,  for  two 
rainy  hours  before  dinner  (which  function  was  delayed 
half  an  hour  to  please  them,  to  the  awed  wonder  of  the  lesser 
guests  and  the  apoplectic  amusements  of  the  young  peer's 
father)  and  were  the  only  occupants  of  the  great  house, 
except  three  collie  pups  who  sat  with  them,  to  see  nothing  odd 
in  the  performance,  though  Saint-Saens  was  come  over  from 
Paris  to  accompany  Margarita  on  the  piano  and  the  princess 
of  a  royal  family  was  dressed  in  her  palpitating  best  for 
the  best  reason  in  the  world  not  unconnected  with  the  son 
of  an  historic  house! 

Du  Maurier  drew  a  picture  of  it  for  Punch  in  his  very 
best  manner  (it  went  the  length  and  breadth  of  England) 
and  then,  at  Roger's  grave  request,  withdrew  it  from  the 
all-but-printed  page  and  gracefully  presented  him  with  it. 
It  was  wonderfully  characteristic  of  both  of  them  and  prettily 
done  on  both  sides,  to  my  old-fashioned  way  of  thinking. 

Well,  it  was  after  that  top-spinning  that  Margarita  and 
the  Fortunate  Youth  jumped  up  carelessly,  kicked  away 
the  tops,  and  raced  each  other  to  the  noble  music  room,  a 
magnificent  gallery,  all  oak  and  Romneys  and  Lelys,  and 
there  the  Fortunate  Youth  sat  down  at  the  piano  (Saint-Saens 
standing  amused  in  the  curve  of  it)  and  began  to  play  the 
accompaniment  of  one  of  Tosti's  great  popular  waltz-songs. 
It  is  no  longer  in  favour,  your  waltz-song,  though  I  have 
lived  through  a  sufficient  number  of  musical  fashions  to  be 

[261] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


reasonably  certain  of  its  return  to  power,  some  day,  but  then 
it  was  at  its  height,  and  subalterns  hummed  them  to  military 
bands,  from  Simla  to  Quebec,  and  soft  eyes  dropped  under 
those  subalterns'  right  shoulders  and  soft  hearts  melted  as 
the  chorus  was  repeated  by  request,  and  the  dawn  found 
them  still  dancing — bless  the  happy  days! 

Now  Providence  had  seen  fit  (displaying  thus  an  aston- 
ishing lack  of  socialistic  wisdom  and  an  altogether  regrettable 
tendency  to  give  to  those  to  whom  much  had  already  been 
given)  to  bestow  upon  this  Fortunate  Youth  enough 
musical  ability  to  have  made  the  fortune  of  a  pair  of  Blind 
Toms,  so  that  he  could  play  any  and  all  instruments,  instinc- 
tively, apparently,  and  almost  equally  well.  He  played 
also  by  ear,  with  the  greatest  ease,  the  most  complicated 
harmonies,  and  could  accompany  anybody's  singing  or 
playing  of  anything  whatever — if  he  happened  to  be  in  the 
mood  for  it. 

"  It  is  a  thousand  pities  that  one  could  not  have  found  him 
in  the  gutter,  that  boy,"  as  M.  Saint-Saens  confided  to  me, 
"it  would  have  been  of  service  to  him!" 

Which  remark,  being  overheard,  scandalised  many  good 
British  souls  horribly  and  caused  the  youth  to  blush  with 
perfectly  ingenuous  and  modest  pleasure. 

He  sat  down  at  the  great  Steinway  and  ran  his  long  white 
fingers  loosely  over  the  keys,  and  said  to  Margarita,  while 
the  butler  gazed  in  agony  at  his  mistress,  and  the  other  guests, 
all  arrayed  for  one  of  the  climaxes  of  one  of  England's  most 
temperamental  importations  from  the  kitchens  of  France, 
stood  divided  between  interest  and  foreboding, 

"I  say, Mrs.  Bradley,  can  you  sing  'Bid  me  Good-bye  and 
Go'?  I'm  awfully  fond  of  that." 

"I  can  sing  it  if  it  is  here,"  said  Margarita  placidly,  "why 
not?" 

"Oh,  it's  safe  to  be  here,"  he  answered  easily,  and  sure 
enough,  it  was  there,  in  a  cabinet  close  by. 

Well,  it  was  banal  enough,  heaven  knows — how  else  could 
[262] 


ARABIAN    NIGHTS    IN   ENGLAND 

it  have  been  popular?  Lincoln  was  not  a  musician,  so  far 
as  I  know,  but  he  knew  that  one  can't  fool  all  the  people  all 
the  time!  And  the  good  Tosti,  however  light  he  may  ring 
nowadays,  had  one  little  bit  of  information  not  always  at  the 
disposal  of  modern  song-writers — he  understood  how  to 
write  for  the  human  voice.  Which  has  always  seemed  to  me 
a  very  valuable  acquisition,  if  one  happens  to  be  in  the 
song-writing  trade. 

So  when  Margarita,  with  a  quick  glance  at  the  obvious 
little  melody,  put  her  hands  behind  her  back  like  a  school- 
girl— she  was  dressed  in  a  tight,  plain  little  jacket  and  skirt 
of  English  tweeds,  with  stiff  white  collar  and  cuffs  and 
thick-soled  boots,  and  what  used  to  be  called  an  "Alpine 
hat" — and  began  to  sing,  to  a  slow  waltz  rhythm,  one  might 
not  have  expected  much:  indeed,  the  youth  hummed  au- 
daciously with  her,  at  first,  and  the  other  men,  not  one  of 
whom  was  within  many  degrees  of  nonentity,  beat  time  care- 
lessly. 

"Is  there  a  single  joy  or  pain 
That  I  may  never  know?" 

Stop  a  bit!  What  caught  at  your  heart  and  worried  you, 
Colonel,  and  stabbed  a  little  under  your  D.  S.  O.  ?  Were 
you  quite  fair  to  that  lovely,  high-spirited  creature  you  mar- 
ried, all  those  years  ago? 

"  Take  back  your  love,  it  is  in  vain  .  .  ." 

Ah,  Lady  Mary,  you  are  a  good  twelve  stone  nowadays, 
but  when  that  poor  younger  cousin  gave  you  that  look  in  the 
garden  and  the  roses  crawled  over  the  old  dial  in  the  moon- 
light, you  were  slighter,  and  crueler! 

"Bid  me  good-bye  and  go!" 

It  was  a  waltz,  oh,  yes,  but  it  was  a  very  Dance  of  Death 
to  those  of  us  who  had  any  parting  to  look  back  to,  that 
changed  our  life — and  we  could  never  go  back  again  and 
make  it  better;  never  any  more.  That  was  what  cut  so, 

[263] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


and  Margarita,  dark  and  slim  like  a  plain  brown  nightingale, 
who  leaves  plumage  to  the  raucous  peacock  because  it 
matters  so  little  what  she,  the  real  queen  of  us  all,  wears — 
Margarita  spelled  it  out  remorselessly,  to  the  tune  of  a  mess- 
room  waltz,  and  told  us  that  youth  is  only  once  and  so  sweet 
and  for  so  little  time!  And  the  boy  beside  her  smiled  with 
pleasure  and  embroidered  her  rich,  clear-cut  phrasing  and 
annotated  it  and  threw  jewels  and  flowers  of  unexpected 
chords  through  it  and  mocked  the  sad,  charming  fatalism 
of  it  as  only  spendthrift  youth  can. 

"  You  do  not  love  me,  no! 
Bid  me  good-bye  and  go  .  .  ." 

Cruel  Margarita,  how  could  you  make  the  tears  splash 
down  the  cheeks  of  the  poor  little  princess,  who  knew  what 
was  expected  of  her  and  had  no  greater  sin  on  her  conscience 
than  a  tiny  lock  of  her  yellow  hair  always  warm,  now, 
in  the  breast  of  a  ridiculous  second  cousin  on  a  sheep- 
ranch  in  far  Dakota,  U.  S.  A.  ? 

"Good-bye,  good-bye,  'tis  better  so  .  .  ." 

They  stand  so  still  in  this  picture,  those  big,  non-com- 
mittal British,  each  gnawing  his  lip  a  little  under  the  droop- 
ing mustache;  the  women's  shoulders  are  ivory  against  the 
panelled  oak  and  bowls  of  Guelder  roses  in  Chinese  bowls; 
that  beautiful  line  from  the  base  of  the  throat  to  the  top  of 
the  corsage  which  America  has  not  to  give  her  daughters,  as 
yet,  heaves  and  droops;  the  Romneys  smile  behind  their 
wax  candles  in  sconces.  It  is  only  a  waltz  of  the  street,  but 
she  has  bewitched  us  with  it,  has  our  Margarita. 

But  strongest  and  clearest  of  all,  keen  in  light  and  dense  in 
shadow  like  a  Rembrandt,  I  see  that  extraordinary  night  in 
Trafalgar  Square,  that  night  that  surely  lives  unique  in  the 
memory  of  Nelson  and  the  Lions,  though  most  that  shared  it 
may  be,  and  doubtless  are — for  they  were  not  for  various 
reasons  long-lived  classes  of  people — dead  and  dust  by  now. 
How  and  why  we  found  ourselves  at  Trafalgar  Square  I 
[264] 


ARABIAN    NIGHTS   IN   ENGLAND 

could  not  tell,  though  I  went  to  the  stake  for  it  this  minute. 
But  I  think  it  must  have  been  that  Margarita  wanted  to  walk 
through  the  streets,  a  form  of  exercise  for  which  she  took  fitful 
fancies  at  odd  times,  and  that  I,  as  was  mostly  the  case,  went 
with  her. 

We  were  all  alone,  for  Roger,  who  shared  our  walks  usually, 
when  he  was  not  too  busy,  had  just  left  for  Berlin  an  hour 
earlier,  on  one  of  his  patient  unravellings  of  Carter's  diplo- 
matic tangles. 

It  had  been  a  dull,  damp  day — the  kind  of  day  that  tried 
Margarita  terribly  in  England,  for  she  was  much  under  the 
influence  of  the  weather,  and  le  beau  temps  brought  out  her 
plumage  like  her  Mexican  parrot  in  Whistler's  portrait. 
Looking  back  at  it  all,  too,  I  seem  to  feel,  though  with  no 
definite  reason  for  it,  that  she  was  perturbed  and  excited 
about  something  known  only  to  herself,  for  she  was  strangely 
irritable  on  our  walk,  contradicted  me  fiercely,  inquired 
testily  who  Nelson  might  be,  then  chid  me  for  a  dry  old 
schoolmaster,  when  I  told  her,  and  such  like  flighty  vagaries, 
inseparable,  I  believed,  from  her  sex  in  general  and  her 
temperament  in  particular.  If  I  have  never  taken  the 
trouble  to  defend  myself  from  the  accusation  of  thinking 
The  Pearl  perfect  in  her  somewhat  spoiled  relations  with  her 
best  friends  at  this  period  of  her  life,  it  is  because  I  have 
always  considered  that  such  people  as  are  too  inelastic  in 
their  views  of  human  nature  to  realise  that  Margarita 
merely  exhibited  les  defauts  de  ses  qualites  (as  who  of  us  does 
not,  at  one  time  or  another  ?)  are  unworthy  even  my  argu- 
mentative powers,  which  are  not  great,  as  I  perfectly  under- 
stand. 

So  she  unsheathed  her  sharp  little  female  claws  and  patted 
me  mercilessly  with  them,  and  contrived  to  make  me  seem 
to  myself  a  tactless,  blundering  fool  to  her  heart's  content 
that  night,  striding  easily  beside  me,  meanwhile,  like  a  boy, 
though  she  had  refused  to  change  her  high-heeled  bronze 
slippers  for  more  sensible  footgear  and  carried  the  un- 

[265] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


reasonably  long  train  of  her  black  lace  dinner  gown  over 
her  arm.  Roger  did  not  care  for  her  in  black,  and  she  seldom 
wore  it,  but  had  ordered  this  a  few  days  ago  from  the  great 
Worth,  who  then  ruled  those  fortunate  ladies  who  could 
afford  to  number  themselves  among  his  subjects  with  a  sway 
he  has  since,  I  am  assured,  been  forced  to  divide  among  other 
monarchs — the  only  monarchs  left  now  to  a  Republic  that 
has  never  denied  that  one  divine  succession  through  all  her 
revolutions.  For  that  monarchy  Paris  never  will  sing 
fa  ira;  for  that  principle  she  knows  no  cynicism;  that 
wonderful  juggernaut,  the  Fashion,  shall  never  rumble 
across  channel,  it  seems! 

I  had  derided  myself  for  a  sentimentalist  and  spinner  of  fine 
theories  when  I  had  thought  I  detected  a  little  defiance  in 
her  first  assumption  of  this  midnight  black  robe,  with  its 
startling  corals  on  her  arm  and  neck,  and  the  foreign-looking 
comb  behind  her  high-dressed  hair,  the  whole  bringing  out 
markedly  that  continental  strain  that  amused  Whistler 
(naughty  Jimmie!)  and  displeased  Roger.  But  when  she 
appeared  in  it  that  night  determined  on  a  dinner  where 
most  of  the  guests  were  highly  distasteful  to  Roger,  who  had 
congratulated  himself  on  a  quiet  evening  at  home;  when 
she  had  dragged  him  to  it  at  the  risk  of  losing  his  only  train 
and  teased  him  shamefully  all  through  it  by  the  most  ridicu- 
lous flirtation  with  one  of  the  worst  roues  of  Europe  (Mar- 
garita was  so  fundamentally  honest  and  so  thoroughly  at- 
tached to  her  husband  that  such  performances  could  only  be 
doubly  painful  to  him,  since  they  were  obviously  intended 
maliciously)  when  she  sent  him  off  before  the  long  dinner's 
close  without  any  but  the  most  casual  adieux  and  without 
the  remotest  intention  of  accompanying  him,  I  was  un- 
comfortably forced  to  the  conclusion  that  this  long-trained, 
inky  dress  was  a  veritable  devil's  livery,  that  she  had  put  it 
on  deliberately  and  that  there  would  be  no  stopping  her  till 
the  mood  was  off. 

And  now  I  find  myself  about  to  write  a  most  unjustifiable 
[266] 


ARABIAN    NIGHTS    IN    ENGLAND 

thing,  in  view  of  the  possibility  of  these  idle  memories 
falling  somehow,  sometime,  somewhere,  into  the  hands  of 
that  ubiquitous  Young  Person  to  whom  all  print  is  free 
as  air  in  these  enlightened  days.  In  America  it  has  been 
the  rule,  to  suppress  such  print  as  could  not  brave 
this  freedom;  in  France,  to  suppress  such  Young  Per- 
sons as  could!  There  is  something  to  be  said  for  both 
methods,  and  each  has,  perhaps,  its  defects;  the  one  pro- 
ducing more  stimulating  Young  Persons,  the  other  enjoying 
more  virile  prose. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  I  am  quite  aware  that  my  duty  to  the 
youth  of  Anglo  Saxondom  should  lead  me  to  state,  sadly  but 
firmly,  that  such  conduct  as  Margarita  displayed  on  the 
night  in  question  could  have  had  but  one  result — that  of 
filling  me,  her  friend  and  admirer,  with  a  grieved  displeasure 
and  disgust;  that  her  unwomanly  carelessness  as  to  the 
feelings  of  others  and  her  wanton  disregard  of  the  wishes 
and  comfort  of  those  who  should  have  been  dearest  to  her 
lowered  her  in  my  estimation  and  greatly  detracted  from 
her  charm  in  my  eyes.  But  I  am  not  writing  particularly  for 
the  Young  Person  and  candour  compels  me  to  state  that  she 
was  quite  as  interesting  to  me  as  ever!  I  djdn't  think  she 
had  treated  Roger  very  handsomely — true;  but  Roger  had 
known  that  he  was  marrying  a  delicious  vixen  when  he 
married  Margarita,  you  see,  and  if  I  had  begun  to  lecture  her, 
there  were  too  many  others  who  would  have  been  only  too 
delighted  to  relieve  her  of  my  society.  She  abused  her  power 
sometimes,  I  admit  it — but  then,  she  had  the  power!  And 
oh,  the  balm  she  kept  for  the  wounds  she  gave! 

As  I  have  said,  I  have  not  the  remotest  idea  of  how  or 
why  we  confronted  Nelson  and  the  Lions,  I  cannot  by  any 
effort  of  memory  see  us  arriving  or  leaving;  but  I  see  myself 
pausing  in  my  lecture  on  English  history,  as  a  lighted  trans- 
parency, a  straggling  crowd  and  a  band  bear  down  upon  us 
suddenly  out  of  nowhere.  It  is  a  poor,  vicious  sort  of  crowd, 
the  gutter-sweepings  of  London;  pale,  stunted  lads,  hag- 

[267] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


gard,  idle  slatterns,  a  handful  of  women  of  the  street,  a  trio 
of  tawdry  flower  girls.  Around  the  band,  which  turns  out  to 
be  only  a  big  drum  and  a  clattering  tambourine,  a  group  of 
men  and  women  in  a  vaguely  familiar  uniform,  the  women 
in  ugly  coal-scuttle  bonnets. 

"What  is  that,  Jerry?"  says  Margarita. 

"That  is  the  Salvation  Army — let's  get  along,"  I  answer. 

But  she  will  not,  for  she  is  curious,  and  I  resign  myself  to 
the  inevitable  and  wait.  Their  crude  appeals  are  symbols 
born  of  a  deep  knowledge  of  the  human  heart  they  fight  to 
win — gleaming  light  and  rhythmic  drum:  the  first  groping 
of  savagery,  the  last  pinnacle  of  the  most  highly  organised 
religious  spectacle  the  world  has  yet  elaborated.  They 
gather  near  the  fountain,  they  group  about  their  lighted 
banner,  and  a  drawling  cockney  voice  afflicts  the  air.  I  can 
see  the  circle  now — they  form  in  the  classic  amphitheatre 
that  knows  no  century  nor  country;  a  humpback  pushing  a 
barrow  of  something  before  him  stops  near  us;  a  woman, 
coughing  frightfully,  leans  on  it,  muttering  to  herself,  staring 
at  Margarita's  scarf-wrapped  head. 

The  cockney's  address  begins,  "O  my  brothers  ..."  but 
I  do  not  attend:  I  want  to  get  Margarita  out  of  the  growing 
crowd,  listless,  but  lifted  for  a  moment  from  their  sordid 
treadmill  of  existence  by  the  light  and  the  muffled,  rhythmic 
crush  and  the  high-pitched  sing-song.  They  must  have 
followed  for  a  long  way,  for  they  are  churnings  from  the 
very  dregs  of  London  and  alien  to  Trafalgar  Square,  and 
the  officer  on  his  beat  looks  at  them  suspiciously  enough. 

"Won't  you  give  us  a  song,  lieutenant?"  says  the  speaker 
suddenly,  "pipe  h'up  there,  friends — many  a  sinner's 
saved  his  soul  with  a  song — w'y  not  some  o'  you  ?  Are  you 
ready,  lieutenant?" 

I  can  see  her  so  plainly,  the  pretty,  worn  little  creature; 

pale  as  death  and  in  no  condition  for  street  singing,  evidently, 

but  plucky  and  borne  along  by  the  very  zeal  of  the  Crusaders. 

The  other  woman,  who  cannot  sing,  shakes  the  tambourine, 

[268] 


ARABIAN    NIGHTS   IN    ENGLAND 

a  great,  burly  fellow,  some  rescued  navvy,  thuds  at  the  drum, 
and  her  sweet,  thin  little  voice  rises,  shrill,  but  wonderfully 
appealing,  though  the  night. 

"/  need  Thee  every  how, 
Most  gracious  Lord!" 

It  is  not  difficult  now  to  see  why  the  crowd  followed;  her 
voice  is  like  a  child's  lost  in  the  wood,  but  brave,  and  sure 
of  ultimate  protection;  it  has  a  curious  effect  of  the  country 
and  the  hedgerows.  They  listen  eagerly,  they  like  it. 

"Come,  Margarita,  I  think  we  ought  to  get  away — the 
crowd  is  getting  thicker.  People  are  staring  at  us." 

"No,  no,  Jerry,  let  me  alone!  Oh,  see  the  poor  woman, 
she  is  too  ill  to  sing!  She  has  lost  her  voice — do  you  know 
it?" 

And  so  she  has.  With  a  clutch  at  her  throat  and  a  pathetic 
turn  of  her  eyes  to  the  speaker,  the  little  lieutenant  shakes 
her  head  at  him  and  is  dumb.  He  seats  her  deftly  on  a  camp 
stool  by  the  drummer,  pats  her  shoulder,  sends  a  friendly 
gutter-rat  with  the  face  of  a  sneak-thief  for  water,  and  turns 
to  the  crowd. 

"Come  now,  friends,  the  lieutenant  'ere  'as  lost  'er  voice 
along  o'  you,  an'  tryin'  to  save  yer!  Can't  you  pipe  up, 
some  o'  you?  If  some  of  you'd  sing  a  bit  with  us,  now, 
maybe  we'd  be  able  to  take  back  one  soul  to  Christ  with 
us  to-night.  Can't  one  o' yer  sing  ?" 

"  I  will  sing! "  says  some  one  near  me — and  it  is  Margarita! 

I  clutch  her  cape  fiercely,  but  it  slips  off  in  my  hand  and 
she  is  at  the  drum,  and  the  lane  that  opened  for  her  closes 
for  me,  and  I  fight  in  vain  to  reach  her — Oh,  it  must  be  a 
dream! 

"  I  need  Thee  every  hour.  .  .  ." 

Ah-h-h!    The  crowd  sighs  with  the  old  familiar  joy,  the 
magic  of  the  golden  voice  slips  like  a  veil  over  the  cruel  angles 
of  their  broken  lives  and  mists  and  softens  everything. 
She  has  a  slip  of  printed  paper  in  her  hand  and  reads 

[269] 


MARGARITA'S   SOUL 


seriously  from  it;  some  one  holds  the  transparency  near  her 
shoulder  for  light — her  white  shoulders,  bare  in  Trafalgar 
Square! 

"  I  need  Thee  every  hour, 

Most  gracious  Lord, 
No  tender  voice  like  thine 

Can  peace  afford  .  .  .  ." 

They  are  still  as  death,  tranced  in  those  liquid  bell-tones. 
The  great  drum  shivers,  as  it  shivered,  of  old,  a  tom-tom, 
across  the  African  desert;  the  old,  primal  thrill  creeps 
through  my  blood — good  heavens,  is  this  fear?  Is  it 
superstition?  Is  it  religion? 

"I  need  Thee— oh,  I  need  Thee!" 

The  woman  sobs  like  a  damned  soul  beside  me;  a  man 
coughs  huskily.  Will  no  one  stop  her  ?  They  have  wedged 
me  so  that  I  cannot  breathe,  I  feel  them  gathering  from  the 
nearby  streets.  And  there  she  stands,  coral  like  blood  on 
her  bare  neck,  the  scarf  fallen  from  her  black  hair,  the  plea  of 
all  humanity  pouring  in  a  great  anguished  stream  of  melody 
out  of  her  white  throat. 

"I  need  Thee  oh,  I  need  Thee, 
Ev'ry  hour  I  need  Theel" 

The  tambourine  shudders  barbarically  across  the  smooth 
flood  of  her  voice:  it  is  the  tingling  crash  of  the  Greek 
Mysteries — and  I  had  thought  it  vulgar! 

I  hear  hansoms  jingling  up — what  will  Roger  say?  He 
would  kill  them  all,  if  he  could,  I  know,  and  yet  no  one 
there  would  hurt  a  hair  of  her  head — and  does  she  not  belong 
to  the  public? 

God  knows  the  poor  devils  need  something — is  it  that, 
then?  Is  it  a  real  thing?  Do  people  fight  for  it  like  that ? 
For  this  imperious  Voice  is  agonising  for  something  and  the 
drum  is  the  beat  of  its  heart. 

"Gawd's  frightful  hard  on  women,"  the  poor  creature 
beside  me  moans,  and  lo,  the  little  dumb  lieutenant  is  by 
[270] 


THEY   ARE   STILL   AS   DEATH,   TRANCED   IN   THOSE   LIQUID   BELL -TONES 


ARABIAN    NIGHTS   IN    ENGLAND 

her  side  miraculously,  and  like  a  shifting  kaleidoscope  the 
crowd  lets  them  through  and  she  kneels,  shaking,  by  the 
drum. 

Their  white  faces  heap  in  layers  before  me;  drawn, 
wolfish,  brutal  in  the  flaring  lights  they  peer  and  gasp  and 
sob,  like  uncouth  inhabitants  of  another  world — wait  a 
bit,  Jerry,  it  is  your  world,  just  the  same,  and  perhaps  you 
are  responsible  for  it?  Ugh! 

"I  need  Thee  .  .  ." 

"Gad,  it's  little  Jose-fa!" 

The  clear  English  voice  cuts  across  the  hush,  and, 

"What  a  lark!"  answers  a  deeper  bass. 

He  is  a  very  important  and  highly  conventional  personage, 
nowadays,  that  slender  pink  dandy,  with  five  grown  daugh- 
ters and  a  Constituency;  but  if  by  any  odd  chance  he  should 
read  this,  I  will  wager  he  forgets  what  he  is  actually  looking 
at  for  a  moment  and  sees  against  the  black  shadows  and 
rising  night  fog  of  Trafalgar  Square  a  beautiful,  black- 
robed  woman  in  red  corals  lifted  to  an  empty  barrow  by 
two  eager  club-dandies  and  held  there  by  a  gigantic  Guards- 
man— the  best  fencer  in  Europe,  once! 

Oh,  Bertie,  the  Right  Honourable  now,  the  always  honour- 
able then,  do  you  know  that  there  were  tears  on  your  pink 
cheeks?  And  your  noble  friend,  who  broke  up  his  estab- 
lishment in  St.  John's  Wood  the  next  day  and  founded  the 
Little  Order  of  the  Sons  of  St.  Francis,  does  he  know  that 
the  lightning  stroke  that  blinded  him  like  Saul  of  Tarsus 
and  sent  him  reeling  from  Piccadilly  to  the  slums,  lighted 
for  a  moment,  as  it  fell,  the  way  of  a  dazed,  rheumatic 
bachelor  from  America,  who  saw  the  terror  in  his  eyes  and 
the  sweat  on  his  forehead  as  he  held  his  corner  of  the  barrow 
and  Margarita  drove  him  to  his  God? 

"  Ev'ry  hour  I  need  Thee  .  .  ." 

The  fog  rolls  over  us,  the  lights  flare  through  a  sea  of  mist; 
the  Honourable  Bertie  produces  a  hansom,  from  his  pocket 

[271] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


apparently,  and  the  wild,  dark  etching  is  wiped  out  like  a 
child's  picture  on  a  slate. 

Margarita  falls  asleep  on  my  shoulder,  I  gain  my  usual 
philosophical  control,  gradually,  and  realise,  now  the  echoes 
of  that  agonised  pleading  have  ceased  to  disturb  my  soul, 
that  the  woman  beside  me  is  not  even  a  Christian,  technically 
speaking,  and  knew  not,  literally,  what  she  did! 

The  magic  of  the  Golden  Voice — ah,  what  magic  can  cope 
with  it  ?  Of  all  the  pictures  hers  has  painted  for  me  on  those 
miraculous,  grey-tissued  walls  where  memory  lives,  this 
strange  coarse-tinted  sketch — a  very  Hogarth  in  its  unsparing 
contrasts — stands  out  the  clearest.  At  night,  when  I  close 
my  eyes  and  think  "London,"  then  does  that  poor  sister  of 
the  streets  moan  to  me  that  "Gawd's  frightful  hard  on 
women,"  and  fight  her  way  to  Margarita — who  has  been 
favoured  beyond  most  women,  and  knows  not  God — at  least, 
not  that  implacable  deity  of  the  London  slum!  Whenever 
I  hear  or  read  the  phrase  "Salvation  Army"  then  do  I  see 
a  young  exquisite  with  a  white  camellia  in  his  buttonhole, 
gazing  like  a  hypnotised  Indian  Seer  :.t  a  crude  transparency 
blotted  with  unconvincing  texts,  then  rushing  off  to  found  a 
celibate  order — from  Margarita,  who  was  no  more  celibate 
that  Ceres  the  bountiful! 

Ah,  well,  the  Way  is  a  Mystery,  as  Alif  said,  and  who  am 
I  that  I  should  expect  to  solve  it,  when  kings  and  philosophers 
have  failed  ?  At  any  rate,  I  have  my  pictures  safe. 


CHAPTER   XXIX 
FATE   GRIPS  HER   LANDING  NET 

SHE  sang  her  French  roles  in  Germany  and  three  times 
in  Siegfried,  and  was  getting  ready  for  Paris  again  when  a 
long  letter  from  Alice  Carter  besought  us  all  to  come  to 
Boston  as  quickly  as  might  be.  Old  Madam  Bradley  had 
been  stricken  suddenly  with  paralysis.  One  side  of  her 
body  was  beyond  movement,  but  the  other  was  as  yet  unim- 
paired, and  by  a  series  of  questions  they  had  found  out  that 
she  wanted  to  see  Roger — and  Roger's  wife — before  she  died. 
Nor  was  this  enough,  for  the  proud,  afflicted  old  creature, 
when  their  ingenuity  had  failed,  traced  left-handed  upon  a 
slate,  with  infinite  effort,  my  initials:  evidently  she  wanted 
to  make  her  peace  in  this  world  before  she  left  it. 

Margarita  demurred  a  little  and  I,  for  one,  should  be  the 
last  to  blame  her.  Greater  knowledge  of  the  world  and 
especially  her  acquaintance  with  Walter  Carter,  who  did 
not  hesitate  to  blame  his  mother-in-law,  had  taught  her 
to  appreciate  Madam  Bradley's  neglect,  and  her  feeling  for 
death  had  none  of  the  sacred  respect  custom  breeds  in  us — 
at  least  outwardly.  She  had  just  begun  to  study  Lohengrin 
and  a  charming  week  at  a  French  chateau  with  Sue  had 
given  her  a  taste  for  the  society  she  liked  and  ornamented 
so  well.  She  suggested  that  Roger  and  I  should  go  alone, 
leaving  her  with  Sue,  and  we  (Sue  and  I)  trembled  for  the 
outcome,  for  she  seemed  rather  determined,  to  us. 

But  we  had  not  counted  sufficiently  on  Roger's  sense  of 
what  was  right  and  just.  What  might  be  considered  a  slight- 
ing of  his  personal  claims  he  could  endure  patiently;  what 

[273] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


was  due  to  his  family  and  position  he  could  not  ignore. 
Quietly  he  cancelled  Margarita's  early  contracts,  secured 
passage  and  dismissed  the  servants. 

"Be  ready  to  sail  on  Saturday,  cherie,"  he  said,  "I  want 
my  mother  to  see  you  very  much,  and  Mary,  too." 

"Very  well,"  said  Margarita,  round-eyed  and  breathing 
fast,  and  Barbara  Jencks  clapped  her  hands  noiselessly. 
She  adored  Roger,  as  did  all  his  servants  and  dependents, 
for  that  matter. 

We  reached  Boston  with  the  first  early  snows,  and  though 
his  mother's  face  was  set  and  her  hand  steady  as  she  laid  it 
on  his  head,  I  think  they  understood  each  other  and  were 
grateful  from  their  hearts  for  that  hour  of  reconciliation. 
For  Margarita  the  stately  silver-haired  figure  with  immovable 
features  and  fixed,  withdrawn  gaze  held  some  unexpected  and 
inexplicable  charm.  She  kissed  Madam  Bradley  willingly, 
set  the  little  Mary  on  her  lap  and  beguiled  the  child  with 
every  graceful  wile  to  laugh  and  crow  and  exhibit  her  tiny 
vocabulary.  She  sang  by  the  hour,  so  that  the  gloomy  house 
— brightened  now,  for  the  baby's  health — echoed  with  her 
lovely  notes.  Bradleys  and  Searses  and  Wolcotts  flocked  to 
meet  her  and  spread  her  fame  and  charm  abroad;  and  Roger 
forgot  for  a  while  the  load  he  carried  and  seemed  like  himself 
again.  Even  Sarah  capitulated,  and  that  before  very  long,  too. 
I  saw  her  actually  wiping  away  a  tear  as  she  watched  Madam 
Bradley  lift  with  great  effort  her  cold  white  finger  and  trace 
the  outline  of  her  grandchild's  face:  the  little  Mary  was 
the  image  of  her  father  and  a  fine  Bradley,  with  only  her 
mother's  quick  motions  and  mobile  smile  to  remind  one  of 
that  side  of  her  ancestry. 

Of  course  Madam  Bradley  was  not  demonstrative,  nor 
even  cordial,  from  any  ordinary  point  of  view,  but  from  hers, 
and  in  the  light  of  our  knowledge  of  her,  there  was  a  tremen- 
dous difference.  Already  she  had  given  little  Mary  a  beau- 
tiful diamond  cross  and  the  famous  Bradley  silver  tea- 
service.  Sarah  had  softened  wonderfully,  too,  and  seemed  to 

[274] 


FATE   GRIPS   HER   LANDING   NET 

feel  that  since  her  aunt  did  not  die,  it  was  incumbent  upon 
her  to  pay  her  debt  to  heaven  by  burying  the  hatchet.  I 
don't  think  I  ever  quite  did  Sarah  justice,  so  far  as  her 
feeling  for  Madam  Bradley  went — she  appeared  to  be 
deeply  and  genuinely  attached  to  her  and  was  sick  with 
anxiety  when  the  stroke  took  her.  She  shared  perfectly 
the  grandmother's  feeling  over  the  baby,  and  Margarita's 
good  taste  in  presenting  Roger  with  such  a  perfect  Bradley 
was  set  down  to  her  credit  with  vigourous  justice.  For  she 
never  forgave  poor  Alice  for  the  brown  little  Carters.  Alice's 
children  resembled  their  father,  and  Sue's  (almost  grand- 
children, in  that  house)  were  sickly  and  comparatively  unat- 
tractive ;  but  Margarita's  daughter,  perfect  in  health,  beau- 
tiful as  a  baby  angel,  active,  daring,  and  enchantingly  affec- 
tionate, satisfied  the  old  lady's  pride  completely  and  she 
sat  for  hours  contentedly  watching  her  sprawl  on  an  Indian 
blanket  on  the  floor. 

Either  the  comfort  of  renewed  relations  with  her  children 
mended  her  health  or  the  fatality  of  the  shock  was  over- 
estimated, for  she  did  not  die,  not  then  nor  for  many  years, 
but  lived,  happier,  perhaps  in  her  affliction  than  before  it, 
for  the  bond  between  her  and  Roger  and  Mother  Mary, 
strengthened  when  she  was  preparing  for  death,  never 
loosened  again,  and  more  than  once,  a  black-robed,  white- 
coiffed  figure  has  visited  the  home  of  her  father's  like  a  slim 
shadow,  and  carried  with  her  one  of  the  Church's  greatest 
blessings,  surely — the  healing  of  old  wounds  and  the  restoring 
of  human  loves. 


[27S] 


PART  NINE 
IN  WHICH   THE   RIVER    FINDS  THE   SEA 


Like  a  white  snake  upon 

the  sands 
She's  writhing  in  the 

crispy  foam, 
She  holds  her  soul  in 
her  open  hands, 
And  now  she  stag- 
gers and  now  she  stands, 
And  now  she  runs  to  her  husband's 
home! 

O  I  have  seen  a  wife  at  rest, 
That    croons   the  babe  upon 

her  knee, 

She  lies  upon  her  goodman's  breast 
As  gentle  as  a  bird  at  nest, 
The  mermaid's  saved  her  soul  from  Sea! 

Sir  Hugh  and  the  Mermaiden. 
[277] 


CHAPTER  XXX 

A  TERROR   IN  THE  SNOW 

WELL,  they  stayed  the  month  nearly  out,  and  then  Roger 
took  a  fancy  to  see  the  Island  in  winter,  and  I,  hugging  to 
my  breast  the  consciousness  of  that  furnace,  was  easily 
persuaded  to  go  with  them:  it  is  January,  February  and 
March  that  punish  me  so  fearfully  in  the  North,  and  really 
only  the  last  two  of  those.  I  had  thought  Margarita  a 
little  distraite  and  cold  to  us  all,  toward  the  last,  and  feared 
she  was  resenting  her  exile:  she  took  a  short  trip  to  New 
York,  accompanied,  of  course,  by  the  faithful  Jencks,  and 
I  had  visions  of  American  contracts,  but  Roger  never 
mentioned  the  subject — didn't  even  ask  her  why  she  went, 
I  believe,  she  hated  to  be  questioned  so. 

We  found  everything  in  first-rate  order  (I  had  written 
ahead  to  light  the  furnace)  and  you  should  have  seen  Roger's 
face  when  he  noticed  the  registers  in  the  big  room!  Like  a 
boy's  when  some  good-natured  trick  has  been  played  upon 
him.  Suppose  we  had  not  had  them  nor  the  coal — it  makes 
me  cold  now  to  think  of  it. 

I  find  I  can't  write  about  it  very  fully,  after  all,  and  I  must 
be  forgiven  if  I  cut  it  short.  It's  a  little  too  near,  yet,  after 
all  the  years.  I  know  I  never  want  to  see  snow  again — it 
is  the  most  cruel  blue-white  in  the  world. 

We  stopped  the  night,  of  course,  and  in  the  morning 
Roger  and  Margarita  went  for  a  walk  on  the  crust,  for  it 
had  snowed  all  night  and  the  evening  before — the  great, 
fat,  grey  clouds  were  full  of  it — and  we  thought  we  were  in 
for  another  blizzard  like  last  year's.  It  had  "let  up"  for 

[279] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


a  little,  as  they  say  about  there,  but  Roger  was  afraid  to 
risk  going  away  till  it  had  definitely  ended,  so  they  went 
for  their  walk,  and  I  chatted  with  Miss  Jencks  by  the  fire. 
They  had  been  gone  about  an  hour  when  we  heard  a  great 
scratching  and  whining  at  the  door  (I  thought  for  a  moment 
it  was  Kitch)  and  Rosy  bounded  in,  snapping  his  teeth  and 
glaring  fearfully.  We  both  jumped  up  and  he  flew  at  me 
and  caught  my  sleeve  in  his  teeth — for  a  moment,  I  confess, 
I  felt  a  little  queer,  for  I  had  seen  him  throw  Caliban  and 
hold  him — then,  as  I  drew  back,  he  uttered  the  most  heart- 
rending howl  I  have  ever  heard,  and  spun  wildly  around, 
and  at  that  moment  I  felt  suddenly  that  something  was  up 
and  that  I  was  wanted.  Miss  Jencks  felt  it  at  exactly  that 
moment,  too,  and  ran  for  my  great-coat  before  I  asked  her. 

She  says  that  I  said, 

"Where  are  they,  old  fellow?  Go  seek!"  but  I  don't 
remember  it.  I  know  that  she  said  in  a  low  voice, 

"  I  shall  be  of  no  use — I  can't  run — but  I  will  have  every- 
thing ready, ' '  though  she  says  I  must  have  imagined  it. 

Rosy  flew  through  the  door  and  I  after  him — she  had  the 
sense  to  bring  me  my  heavy  arctic  overshoes,  or  I  should 
have  slipped  in  a  minute— and  I  ran  for  about  fifty  yards. 

Then  something  stopped  me.  Where  it  came  from,  what 
did  it,  I  don't  know  and  can  never  know,  but  I  swear  I 
heard  a  low,  distinct  voice  close  to  me  (not  a  cry,  mind  you, 
but  a  quiet,  hoarse  voice)  saying, 

"  Get  a  rope.     Get  a  rope." 

I  checked  like  a  scared  horse  and  nearly  fell. 

"  Get  a  rope,"  I  heard  again,  "get  a  rope." 

Then,  cursing  at  myself  for  a  crazy  fool,  I  actually  turned, 
with  Rosy  showing  his  teeth  at  me,  and  dashed  back  (all 
those  precious  yards!)  and  grabbed  a  pile  of  rope  Caliban 
had  brought  out  to  bind  some  big  logs  for  hauling  and 
abandoned  under  the  eaves  when  we  arrived  on  the  island. 
Rosy  was  far  ahead  now,  but  he  had  gone  through  the  crust 
at  intervals  and  I  tracked  him  by  that. 
[280] 


I   LEANED    OVER    THE    BANK   AND    CRIED    THAT    I    WAS    THERE,    BUT 
SHE    NEVER   STOPPED — IT    WAS   TERRIBLE 


A   TERROR    IN   THE    SNOW 

Suddenly  the  wind — it  was  blowing  a  steady  gale  behind 
me — shifted,  and  I  heard  a  succession  of  terrible  cries, 
great  hoarse,  high  shrieks,  like  nothing  human  and  yet 
unlike  any  animal.  Wordless,  throat-tearing  screams  they 
were,  and  I  shouted  back,  against  the  head-on  wind, 

"Coming!  Coming!  Hold  on!  I'm  coming!"  till  I 
coughed  and  strangled  and  had  to  stop. 

How  I  ran!  I  never  did  it  before  and  certainly  never  can 
again.  Rosy's  tracks  curved  and  twisted,  and  I  felt  I  was 
losing  time,  but  dared  not  risk  missing  them,  for  I  was 
coming  nearer  to  that  awful  voice  steadily,  though  it 
echoed  so  I  should  have  been  helpless  without  any  other 
guide. 

Well,  I  found  them.  Roger  up  to  his  shoulders  in  icy 
water,  his  head  dropped  back,  white,  on  her  arm,  and  she  up 
to  her  waist  on  a  slippery  ledge  under  the  highest  point  of 
the  bank — the  bank  that  I  blasted  out!  She  was  caught, 
I  could  see,  on  a  jagged  point  by  her  heavy,  woollen  skirt 
(it  was  made  in  London,  bless  it!)  and  must  have  wedged 
her  foot,  besides,  in  some  way,  for  she  had  his  whole  weight; 
her  lips  were  blue.  She  wore  a  blood-red  cape,  all  merry 
and  Christmas-like  against  the  white  ledges,  and  her  hair 
streamed  in  the  wind.  Her  head  was  thrown  back  like  a 
hound's  and  those  blood-curdling  screams  poured  out  of  it; 
her  eyes  were  shut.  Now  and  then  Rosy  bayed  beside  her, 
scratching  at  the  snow,  and  where  the  water  was  not  frozen 
in  the  protected  pools  it  swirled  like  a  mill-race  around  the 
nasty,  pointed  rocks. 

I  leaned  over  the  bank  and  cried  that  I  was  there,  but  she 
never  stopped — it  was  terrible.  Finally  I  made  a  slip-noose 
and  actually  managed  to  fling  it  over  his  head — Roger  had 
taught  me  to  do  that  at  school,  twenty  years  ago — and  that 
stopped  her,  hitting  against  her  cheek,  and  she  opened  her 
eyes. 

"Put  it  under  his  arms,  can  you?"  I  cried,  and  after 
several  efforts,  for  she  was  nearly  frozen  stiff,  the  brave, 

[281] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


clever  creature  did,  and  I  got  it  around  a  tree  on  the  edge. 
Then  I  stopped,  panting,  for  I  realised  that  I  could  do  no 
more.  The  run  had  taken  all  the  strength  out  of  me — I 
couldn't  have  dragged  a  cat — and  she  was  little  more  than  a 
foot  below  me! 

I  can't  write  about  it.  My  arms  ache  now,  just  as  my 
infernal  shoulders  ached  with  that  paralysing,  numb  ache 
then. 

"Listen!"  I  cried,  for  she  had  begun  to  scream  again, 
"  listen,  Margarita,  or  I  will  beat  you!  Is  he  unconscious  ?" 

She  nodded. 

"  Can  you  hold  on  five  minutes,  with  his  weight  gone?" 

She  blinked  in  a  sort  of  stupid  assent. 

"  Could  you  for  ten?    Are  you  braced  solid?" 

Again  she  blinked,  and  with  an  inspiration  I  plunged  my 
shaking  hand  into  my  great-coat  pocket  and  pulled  out  a 
brandy-flask.  Miss  Jencks  had  taken  it  from  the  side- 
board. 

I  tied  it  into  my  handkerchief,  opened,  and  swung  it  down 
to  her,  and  she  got  her  lips  around  it  and  coughed  it  down. 
It  acted  instantly  and  she  could  move  a  little,  and  while  I 
encouraged  her,  and  after  several  heartrending  failures, 
which  nearly  spilled  all  the  brandy,  she  got  it  into  his  mouth 
between  his  teeth,  as  his  big  body  swung  in  the  noose.  It 
ran  over  his  chin  and  down  his  neck,  but  a  little  got  in,  and 
his  eyelids  quivered.  Soon  he  coughed,  and  I  dared  not 
wait  another  second. 

"I  am  going  for  Caliban,"  I  said  very  distinctly,  "we 
will  pull  you  out  in  a  few  minutes.  Let  him  alone  and  hang 
on,  do  you  hear?  Don't  scream  any  more — you  are  safe. 
Pour  all  the  brandy  into  him — tell  him  he  is  tied  fast. 
Don't  try  to  move — you  may  slip,  and  tear  your  skirt. 
Hold  on!" 

Then  I  turned  my  back  on  them  and  ran,  or  rather 
stumbled  off.  I  leaned  over  and  kissed  her  forehead,  first. 

I  remember  muttering,  "I  never  asked  before — if  You 
[282] 


A   TERROR   IN   THE   SNOW 

or  Anybody  is  there,  save  them!    Take  me  and  save  them! " 
and  then  I  stumbled  on  and  on.  .  .  . 

It  was  not  too  long.  Caliban  was  coming  with  his  big 
wood-sled  and  more  rope  and  blankets,  and  as  I  caught  sight 
of  him  the  most  extraordinary  thought  flew  into  my  mind, 
which  worked  with  a  dreadful  clearness,  for  I  saw  them 
stiffen  and  sink  and  slip  away  every  second.  Rosy  bayed 
just  then,  and  as  my  heart  sank,  for  I  thought  they  were 
gone,  it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  what  Rosy's  name  must 
have  been! 

"  It's  Rosencrantz! "  I  muttered,  "  and  the  one  Margarita 
insists  was  called  'Gildy'  was  Guildenstern,  and  they  were 
Hamlet's  friends — poor  Prynne!"  Perhaps  that  wasn't 
idiotic — I  laughed  as  I  stumbled  along! 

Well,  they  were  there,  and  Roger  was  enough  himself 
to  strike  out  with  his  feet  a  little  and  avoid  hindering  us, 
if  he  couldn't  help  much.  I  made  another  noose  for  her, 
and  she  hung  in  it  while  Caliban  dragged  him  up — the  fellow 
had  the  strength  of  an  ox  and  showed  wonderful  dexterity — 
and  later  crawled  down  the  rocks  and  cut  her  skirt  through 
with  his  big  clasp-knife.  She  was  the  hardest  to  move, 
for  her  foot  was  caught — all  that  saved  her.  I  thought  we 
should  break  her  ankle  before  we  could  get  her. 

We  laid  them  on  the  sledge,  wrapped  in  blankets,  poured 
in  more  brandy,  and  Caliban  attached  Rosy  to  it  by  his 
collar — an  old  trick  of  his,  it  seems — and  they  dragged  us  all 
home,  for  my  worthless  legs  gave  out  completely. 

Miss  Jencks  and  Agnes  rubbed  them  and  mustard- 
bathed  them  and  I  wrote  telegrams  for  Caliban  to  take  in 
the  launch — wrote  them  as  well  as  I  could  in  the  clutches  of 
a  violent  chill,  with  my  teeth  like  castanets  and  my  hands 
palsied — and  even  as  I  wrote,  it  came  to  me  that  Margarita 
had  repeated  monotonously,  all  the  way  home,  in  a  hoarse, 
painful  voice  (but,  mercifully,  a  low  one)  "  get  a  rope,  get  a 
rope,  get  a  rope." 
It  was  the  voice  I  had  heard,  that  turned  me  back! 

[283] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


She  was  all  right,  but  very  weak  and  sore  and  with  a  little 
fever — not  much.  She  was  perfectly  conscious  of  every- 
thing within  an  hour,  and  told  us  about  it:  how  she  had 
slipped  and  Roger  had  hit  his  head  and  strained  himself 
in  going  after  her.  She  thinks  she  held  him  under  the  arms 
ten  minutes,  screaming  all  the  time!  She  sent  Rosy  back, 
finally,  though  at  first  he  refused  to  go. 

Roger  was  delirious  for  five  days  and  very  dangerously 
ill  for  three  weeks — it  was  double  pneumonia.  Miss  Jencks 
had  seen  it  before  and  it  was  her  prompt  measures  before 
we  could  get  the  doctor  or  Harriet  that  saved  him,  they 
think.  It  was  a  bad  age  for  pneumonia;  Harriet  said  she 
would  rather  have  pulled  Margarita  through  it.  She  brought 
a  deaconess  from  the  little  dispensary  with  her  and  one  or 
the  other  was  watching  him  like  a  cat  every  second,  for  three 
weeks.  It  was  a  nurse's  case,  the  doctor  said,  though  he 
stopped  the  first  week. 

When  Margarita  came  to  herself  after  an  hour  or  so,  she 
asked  for  me,  and  as  I  knelt  by  her  bed  and  she  turned  her 
great  eyes  on  me  I  caught  my  breath,  for  I  was  looking  at 
a  new  woman.  I  can't  describe  it  better  than  by  saying 
that  she  had  a  soul!  There  had  always  been  something 
missing,  you  see,  though  I  would  never  have  admitted  it, 
if  she  hadn't  got  it  then.  But  it  was  there. 

It  was  very  pathetic,  those  first  days  when  Roger  was 
delirious:  she  was  nearly  so  herself.  And  yet  it  was  not 
wholly  grief — there  was  a  definite  reason  for  it,  which  we  all 
felt,  somehow,  but  she  would  not  give  it. 

"Will  he  not  know  me  for  a  minute,  a  little  minute, 
Harriet?"  she  would  beg,  so  piteously,  and  Harriet  would 
soothe  her  and  try  to  give  her  hope.  The  fifth  day  he  was 
very  low  and  the  doctor  told  us  to  make  up  our  minds  for 
anything:  he  hadn't  slept  all  night.  I  took  Harriet  by  the 
shoulders  and  asked  her  if  she  could  not  possibly  make  him 
conscious — before.  I  don't  know  why  I  asked  her  and  not 
the  doctor,  but  I  did.  She  promised  me  she  would  try 
[284] 


A   TERRpR    IN   THE   SNOW 

(I  think  she  had  nearly  given  up  hope,  herself)  and  at  three 
the  next  morning  she  called  me  and  said  that  I  might  have 
a  chance — that  he  might  know  us  for  a  moment.  Mar- 
garita was  by  the  bed:  her  face  was  enough  to  break  your 
heart. 

"Only  a  minute,  Harriet — only  a  little  minute!"  she 
pleaded  like  a  baby.  I  don't  know  what  insane  vow  I 
didn't  offer  .  .  .  He  opened  his  eyes  and  they  fell  on  her. 
She  put  her  hand  on  his  forehead  and  said  very  plainly. 

"Listen,  Roger,  you  must  listen.  It  is  I — Margarita, 
Cherie,  you  know.  Do  you  hear?" 

His  eyes  looked  a  little  conscious,  and  Harriet  held  his 
pulse  and  slipped  something  into  his  mouth.  In  a  moment 
we  all  knew  that  he  knew  us. 

"Now  say  one  thing,  Mrs.  Bradley — quickly!"  Harriet 
whispered. 

Margarita  bent  like  a  flash  and  whispered  in  his  ear  very 
swiftly:  her  whole  body  was  tense.  You  should  have  seen 
his  eyes — he  was  old  Roger  again!  I  could  see  his  hand 
press  hers  and  she  kissed  him  just  as  the  flash  went  by,  and 
he  took  to  muttering  again. 

Harriet  pushed  her  away  and  put  her  hand  on  his  fore- 
head, then  nodded  at  the  deaconess. 

"Call  the  doctor!"  she  said  sharply,  and  I  thought  it 
was  all  over.  .  .  . 

But  it  was  the  turn,  and  after  that  by  hair's  breadths 
and  hair's  breadths  they  pulled  him  over. 

"  Now  he  knows,  Jerry,"  Margarita  said  to  me,  and  went 
to  bed  herself. 

It  was  a  good  week  after  that,  when  the  doctor  had  gone 
and  we  were  all  breathing  naturally  again,  that  Harriet 
asked  me  abruptly  if  I  had  noticed  Mrs.  Bradley's  voice. 
I  said  yes,  that  it  was  still  decidedly  husky.  She  looked  at  me 
so  sadly,  so  strangely,  that  my  nerves  fairly  jumped — we 
had  all  been  on  edge  for  a  month — and  I  commanded  her 
rather  sharply  to  say  what  she  meant  and  be  done  with  it. 

[285] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


"  Is  her  voice  injured  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  so,  yes,"  she  said  gently. 

"But  surely  time  and  rest  and  proper  treatment,"  I 
began,  but  she  shook  her  head. 

"The  doctor  examined  her  throat  before  he  left,"  she 
said.  "Of  course  he  had  no  laryngoscope  with  him,  but 
he  didn't  need  one,  really.  The  vocal  cords  are  all  stretched 
— he  said  the  specialists  might  help  her  and  take  away  a 
great  deal  of  the  hoarseness,  but  that  in  his  opinion  she  can 
never  stand  the  strain  of  public  singing  again:  he  thinks 
excitement  alone  would  paralyse  the  cords." 

"Who's  to  tell  her?"  I  said  quietly. 

You  see,  we'd  all  been  stretched  so  taut  that  we  couldn't 
use  any  more  energy  in  exclamations  or  regrets. 

"  I  thought  you  might,"  she  said,  but  I  shook  my  head. 

"Miss  Jencks — "  I  began,  but  it  appeared  that  Miss 
Jencks  felt  unequal  to  it.  So  Harriet  told  her,  of  course, 
on  the  principle  that  when  one  has  a  heavy  load  he  may  as 
well  carry  a  little  more,  I  suppose. 

And  after  all  it  wasn't  so  bad;  for  Margarita  came  down 
to  me  a  little  later,  and  told  me  she  had  known  it  all  the 
time! 

"  But,  of  course,  dear  child,"  I  said  hopefully,  "  Doctor 

is  not  a  throat  specialist,  you  know,  and  we  can  but  try 

some  of  those  famous  fellows,  a  little  later.    Perhaps  in  a 
year  or  two " 

"You  are  very  good  to  me,  Jerry,"  she  said,  "but  it  is 
no  use.  I  know.  I  shall  never  sing  again.  I  am  sorry, 
because " 

"  Sorry?"  I  cried,  "why,  of  course  you  are  sorry!  What 
do  you  mean?" 

"Because,"  she  continued  placidly,  "it  will  not  be  so 
much  to  give  Roger." 

"Give  Roger?"  I  echoed  stupidly,  "how  'give  Roger'?" 

"I  was  not  going  to  sing  any  more,  anyway,"  she 
said. 

[286] 


A   TERROR   IN   THE   SNOW 

For  a  moment  I  was  dazed  and  then  the  simplicity  of  it 
all  flashed  over  me. 

"  Why,  Margarita!"  I  cried — and  that  is  all  the  comment 
I  ever  made. 

"That  was  what  I  wanted  to  tell  him  when  he  did  not 
know  me,"  she  explained.  "  I — I  was  going  to  tell  him  the 
night — the  night  it  happened." 

"And  does  he  know  it  now?" 

"  Of  course.     That  is  why  he  got  well,"  she  said  promptly. 

And  do  you  know,  I'm  not  sure  she  was  wrong?  That 
life  was  killing  him — I  mean  it  ran  across  his  instincts  and 
feeling  and  beliefs,  every  way. 

There  was  no  doubt  she  meant  it.  She  never  referred  to 
the  subject  again. 

He  wanted  her  to  see  somebody  else  about  her  throat, 
but  she  absolutely  refused  to  leave  the  Island  till  he  was  out 
of  bed — Sarah  came  on  with  the  baby  two  weeks  later — and 
they  sat  by  him  all  day  nearly,  the  two  of  them,  and  he  hardly 
let  go  her  hand.  He  had  changed  a  great  deal  in  one  way — 
his  hair  was  quite  silvered.  But  it  was  very  becoming. 

I  didn't  leave  till  I  saw  him  in  a  dressing-gown  in  a  long 
chair  by  the  fire.  Harriet  went  back  to  her  hospital,  and 
when  Roger  was  up  to  it  they  went  South  for  a  bit  before  he 
began  to  work  again. 

The  day  before  I  left  he  did  an  odd  thing — one  of  the 
two  or  three  impractical,  sentimental  things  I  ever  knew  him 
to  do  in  his  life.  He  asked  me  to  bring  him  his  history  of 
Napoleon — it  had  been  packed  into  their  luggage  by  mis- 
take— and  deliberately  laid  it  on  the  heart  of  the  fire!  I 
cried  out  and  leaned  forward  to  snatch  it — to  think  of  the 
labour  it  represented! — but  he  put  his  hand  on  my  arm. 

"Don't,  Jerry — I  hate  every  page  of  it!"  he  said. 

Well,  I  have  been  wondering  these  twenty  years  if  per- 
haps they'll  talk  about  it — the  whole  thing — some  day. 
At  the  time,  we  all  acted  as  if  it  were  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world  for  Margarita  to  settle  down  as  a  haus 

[287] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


frau — perhaps  when  Nora  got  done  with  her  studies  of  life 
(for  I  read  Sue's  Ibsen,  you  see)  that  is  what  she  did,  after 
all! 

At  any  rate,  I  frankly  hope  so.  For  if  all  the  wisdom  and 
experience  and  training  that  the  wonderful  sex  is  to  gain  by 
its  exodus  from  the  home  does  not  get  back  into  it  ultimately, 
I  can't  (in  my  masculine  stupidity)  quite  see  how  it's  going 
to  get  back  into  the  race  at  all!  And  then  what  good  has  it 
done?  I  hope  Mr.  Ibsen  knows! 


[288] 


CHAPTER   XXXI 
•  FATE   EMPTIES   HER   CREEL 

[FROM  SUE  PAYNTER] 

PARIS,  Feb.  ioth.,  189 — 
JERRY  DEAR: 

What  must  you  think  of  me  for  delaying  so  long  to  write, 
after  the  few  curt  words  I  found  for  you  that  night  ?  I  hope 
you  know  that  something  must  have  kept  me  and  have 
forgiven  me  already.  Poor  little  Susy  was  taken  very  sick 
the  night  you  sailed,  with  violent  pains  and  a  high  fever. 
Fortunately  there  is  a  good  American  doctor  here — a 
Doctor  Collier — and  we  pulled  her  through,  though  it 
seemed  a  doubtful  thing  at  one  time.  The  doctor  decided 
that  she  had  appendicitis  (I  never  heard  of  it  before)  and 
operated  immediately  on  her,  which  undoubtedly  saved 
her  life.  It  seems  that  Mother  Nature  is  not  quite  so  clever 
as  we  have  always  thought  her  and  has  left  a  very  dangerous 
little  cul-de-sac  somewhere,  that  ought  not  to  be  there,  so 
modern  science  takes  it  out.  Isn't  that  strange  ?  The  doc- 
tor has  just  come  over  to  operate  for  this  in  Germany 
somewhere;  he  was  an  assistant  of  Dr.  McGee,  whom  you 
sent  to  the  South,  and  can't  say  enough  of  the  magnificent 
work  he  is  doing  there.  He  was  much  interested  to  find 
I  knew  all  about  it  and  that  Uncle  Morris  stocked  the  dis- 
pensary. Isn't  the  world  small  ? 

I  hope  you're  not  feeling  too  badly  about  Margarita — 
don't.  Of  course  I  understand  what  the  stage  has  lost,  and 
you  will  confess  that  I  was  as  anxious  for  her  career  as 
anybody,  even  when  I  was  sorriest  for  Roger.  I  wanted  her 
to  have  her  rights  as  an  artist.  But  if  she  doesn't  want 

[289] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


them — ah,  that's  a  different  pair  of  sleeves  altogether.  She 
has  sent  me  her  latest  photograph,  and  the  eyes  are  all  I  need. 
Of  course,  I  have  no  such  brilliant  future  to  sacrifice,  but  if  I 
had,  I  am  sure  I  should  throw  a  dozen  of  them  over  the  wind- 
mill for  two  eyes  like  hers  to-day! 

I  don't  know  why  I  am  prosing  along  at  this  rate  and 
avoiding  the  main  object  of  this  letter.  I  must  plunge  right 
into  it,  I  suppose,  and  get  it  over. 

Don't  think  I  don't  appreciate  all  your  kind,  your  generous, 
offer  meant,  Jerry.  I  thought  of  it  so  often  and  so  long  before 
I  gave  you  that  brusque  answer.  And  it  tempted  me  for  a 
moment — indeed  it  did.  I  think,  as  you  say,  that  we  could 
travel  very  comfortably  together  and  we  have  many  of  the 
same  tastes — I  know  no  one  so  sympathetic  as  you.  As 
for  "nursing  a  rheumatic,  middle-aged  wanderer  through 
assorted  winter-climates,"  that  is  absurd,  and  you  know  it, 
though  I  should  be  glad  enough  to  do  it,  if  it  were  true,  as  far 
as  that  goes.  I  know  all  you  would  do  for  the  children,  and 
how  kind  you  would  be  to  them.  Not  that  I  like  that  part, 
though,  to  be  quite  frank.  I  could  never  love  another  wo- 
man's children  (especially  if  I  loved  their  father)  and  I  can't 
understand  the  women  that  do.  So  I  always  imagine 
a  man  in  the  same  position.  And  I  can't  help  feel- 
ing, Jerry,  that  if  you  really  loved  me — loved  me  in  the 
whole  crazy  sense  of  that  dreadful  world,  I  mean — that  you 
wouldn't  speak  so  sweetly  about  the  children:  how  could 
you?  How  can  any  man — I  couldn't,  if  I  were  one! 

But  this  is  very  unfair,  because  you  never  said  you  did 
love  me  in  that  way — don't  imagine  that  I  thought  so  for  a 
moment.  Jerry  dear,  my  best  friend  now,  for  I  must  not 
count  on  Roger  any  more,  do  you  think  I  am  blind?  Do 
you  think  I  have  been  blind  for  three  years  ?  And  will  you 
think  me  a  romantic,  conceited  fool  when  I  say  that  unless 
I — even  I,  a  widow  and  a  jilt,  who  hurt  a  good  man  terribly 
and  got  well  punished  for  it ! — can  have  the  kind  of  love  that 
you  can  never  give  me,  because  you  gave  it  to  someone 
else  three  years  ago,  I  don't  want  to  accept  your  generous 
kindness  ?  You  see,  I  know  how  you  can  love,  Jerry,  just 
as  I  see  now  that  I  never  knew  how  Roger  could  until 
those  same  three  years  ago.  Of  course  he  didn't  either — 
[290] 


FATE    EMPTIES    HER    CREEL 

would  he  ever  have  known  the  difference,  I  wonder,  if  we 
had  married? 

And  there  is  another  reason,  too.  You  might  just  as  well 
know  it,  for  my  conceit  is  not  pride  really,  and  it  may  be 
you  know  it  already.  Whatever  love  Frederick  failed  to  kill 
in  me — and  the  very  idea  of  passionate  love  almost  nauseates 
me,  even  yet — is  not  in  my  power  to  give  you,  Jerry  dear. 
It  might,  some  day,  later,  wake  again,  but  it  would  not  be 
your  touch  that  could  wake  it. 

Now,  since  this  is  so  of  both  of  us,  don't  you  see,  dear, 
that  things  are  better  as  they  are  ?  I  promise  you  that  if  I 
ever  need  help,  I  will  come  to  you  first  of  all,  since  what  you 
really  want  is  to  help  me  and  make  me  comfortable  and 
give  me  the  pleasure  of  wide  travel,  you  generous  fellow! 
And  if  ever  you  really  need  me,  Jerry — but  you  won't,  I 
am  sure.  No  one  else  is  quite  what  you  are  to  me,  or  can  be, 
now,  and  we  must  always  be  what  we  have  always  been — 
the  best  of  friends.  Tell  me  that  you  know  I  am  right,  and 
then  let  us  never  discuss  it  again. 

Yours  always, 

SUE. 

UNIVERSITY  CLUB,  May  2oth,  189 — 
DEAR  JERRY: 

Have  just  got  back  from  a  little  Western  trip  (my  brother 
and  I  exchanged  pulpits  for  a  month)  and  learned  of  Roger's 
illness  and  the  accident.  What  a  terrible  thing,  and  how 
fortunate  they  were!  I  always  liked  that  big  dog,  the  fine, 
faithful  fellow.  Mrs.  Bradley's  leaving  the  stage  was  no 
great  surprise  to  me:  she  came  to  New  York  to  ask  my  advice 
about  it  just  before  the  accident.  We  had  a  long  talk,  and 
though  she  by  no  means  agreed  at  the  time  to  everything  I 
said  on  the  subject,  she  did  not  seem  opposed,  herself,  to 
much  of  it,  in  fact,  she  seemed  very  anxious  to  do  the  fair 
thing,  it  seemed  to  me.  She  appreciated  perfectly  that  the 
more  she  did  in  one  way  the  less  she  could  do  in  another — 
how  wonderful  it  is  to  think  that  she  has  never  been  to 
school  in  her  life!  It  almost  seems  as  if  so  much  schooling 
were  unnecessary,  doesn't  it,  when  association  with  educated 

[291] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


people  can  do  so  much  in  three  years.    Or  perhaps  it  is  only 
women  that  could  absorb  so  quickly. 

I  hope  the  doctors  are  wrong  about  her  voice.  They  all 
say  it  will  be  a  little  husky  always  (though  less  and  less  so 
with  time)  and  that  singing,  except  in  the  quietest,  smallest 
way,  will  be  impossible.  It  does  not  seem  to  matter  very 
much  to  her.  She  is  looking  very  well  indeed  (you  know, 
of  course,  that  she  is  expecting  another  child  in  the  autumn 
— Roger  told  me).  He  is  quite  magnificent  with  his  thick, 
silvery  hair,  I  think.  Mr.  Carter,  who  dined  with  me  here 
at  the  club  a  night  or  two  ago  (he  gave  my  boys  a  fine  talk 
on  German  customs  and  military  games)  tells  me  that  he 
hopes  (Roger,  I  mean)  to  be  able  to  do  a  great  deal  of  his 
work  on  the  Island — certainly  all  the  summer  and  autumn. 
He  seems  to  be  turning  into  a  sort  of  consulting  lawyer,  like 
a  surgeon.  Besides  that  great  text-book  business  I  suppose 
you  know  about.  He  says  there  are  two  or  three  years'  work 
on  that  alone. 

I  hope  that  you  agree  with  me  that  Mrs.  Bradley  is  much 
better  off  in  her  husband's  home,  fulfilling  the  natural 
duties  of  her  sex.  You  seemed  to  think  in  your  last  that  Mrs. 
Paynter  would  not,  to  my  great  surprise.  What  in  the 
world  is  the  matter  with  the  women,  now-a-days?  Where 
shall  we  be  if  the  finest  specimens  of  them  have  no  leisure 
to  perpetuate  the  race  ?  Are  only  the  stupid  and  unoriginal, 
unattractive  ones  to  have  this  responsibility?  I  wish  I 
dared  get  up  a  sermon  on  these  lines;  I  may  try  yet! 

You  know  Mrs.  Paynter  well,  Jerry — do  you  think  there 
is  any  chance  for  me  there?  I  have  been  for  ten  years 
proving  that  a  minister  need  not  be  married,  and  I've  done 
it,  too,  but  it  was  only  because  I  never  met  the  woman  I 
wanted.  I  have,  now,  but  she  won't  have  me.  Does  that 
mean  it's  final?  I  don't  know  much  about  women,  but  I 
can't  believe  one  like  her  would  refuse  just  to  be  asked  again. 
Tell  me  what  you  think.  She  seems  very  decided,  though 
she  sympathises  thoroughly  with  my  work. 

Yours  faithfully, 
TYLER  FESSENDEN  ELDER. 


292] 


FATE    EMPTIES    HER   CREEL 

[FROM  MY  ROUGH  DIARY] 

May  30,  189 — 

Have  just  written  Tip  Elder  how  sorry  I  am  about  Sue, 
but  that  he'd  better  give  it  up.  She'll  never  marry.  How 
curiously  we  three  are  twisted  into  the  Bradley  weaving! 

M.  so  happy  and  beautiful — the  past  seems  a  dream. 
Voice  lovely  still,  but  not  quite  under  her  control  always, 
and  a  tiny  roughness  in  it  that  humanises,  somehow — it  was 
too  clear  before,  though  that  sounds  absurd. 

Everybody  wondering  how  everybody  else  will  take  her 
retirement.  Strangely  enough,  no  one  regrets  much,  per- 
sonally, but  all  sure  the  others  will!  Are  we  all  more  clear- 
sighted than  we  suppose — or  more  sentimental?  Surgeon 
from  Vienna  has  pronounced  condition  final.  Either  she 
is  a  wonderful  actress  or  else  we  have  over-estimated  her 
vocation;  she  seems  absolutely  contented.  And  yet,  think 
of  her  triumphs!  And  of  course,  her  greatest  successes  were 

all  to  come.  Madame  M is  furious,  but  told  Sue  she 

had  never  trusted  Roger — he  was  always  too  silent!  "He 
has  absorbed  a  great  artist  like  so  much  blotting-paper!" 
she  said.  But  he  has  got  something  into  her  eyes  that 
Madame  never  saw  there:  we  all  agree  on  that.  How  did 
Alif  put  it — "Tis  Allah  sets  the  price,  brother — we  have 
but  to  pay."  Well,  she's  paid.  And  old  Roger,  for  that 
matter,  and  Sue,  and  Tip — and  I.  Who  keeps  the  shop, 
I  wonder? 


293] 


CHAPTER    XXXII 

THE  SUNSET  END 

To-day  I  went  to  Mary's  wedding,  and  it  has  made  me 
very  thoughtful.  She  was  very  lovely — a  great,  blooming 
blonde,  the  image  of  Roger.  They  were  a  fine  pair,  as  he 
held  her  on  his  arm:  he  looking  younger  than  his  sixty  years, 
she  older  than  her  twenty,  for  all  the  children  are  wonder- 
fully mature  and  well-developed. 

She  was  nearly  as  tall  as  young  Paynter,  whose  slender- 
ness,  however,  is  like  steel.  I  well  remember  when  Dr. 
McGee  took  him  to  North  Carolina  and  made  him  over — a 
weak,  irritable  little  precocity  of  twelve  or  so.  He  never  ate 
or  slept  in  a  house  for  three  years,  and  I  think  that  the  birds 
and  trees  of  that  period  got  into  his  opera  and  made  it  what 
it  is,  the  musical  event  of  a  decade.  He  works  best  in  Paris, 
and  they  will  live  there,  after  a  honeymoon  on  the  Island. 

I  don't  think  Mary  was  ever  the  favourite  child,  though 
each  of  the  six  thinks  it  is,  Margarita  is  so  wonderful  with 
them!  She  cannot  hide  from  me,  who  watch  every  light 
in  her  eye,  that  young  Roger,  the  second  child  and  oldest 
boy,  means  a  shade  more  to  her  than  the  others,  just  as 
Roger,  when  he  sits  alone  with  Sue,  the  second  daughter, 
talks  to  her  more  confidentially  than  to  any  of  the  others, 
and  watches  her  yellow  head  most  steadily  when  they  are 
all  swimming,  off  the  Island  wharf.  They  are  both  fine, 
big  girls,  just  as  Roger  and  my  namesake  are  fine,  big, 
steady  fellows  and  little  Lockwood  is  a  fine,  big,  handsome 
child. 

But  my  foolish  old  heart  lost  itself  long  ago  to  a  pair 

[294] 


THE   SUNSET   END 


of  slate-blue  eyes  set  in  an  olive  face  under  dark,  strong 
waves  of  hair,  and  when  into  that  large,  blonde  brood  there 
came  a  perfect  baby  Margarita,  a  slender,  dark  thing  who 
flashed  the  summer  twilight  sky  at  one  from  under  her  long 
dark  lashes,  I  claimed  her  for  mine  and  mine  she  is — my 
Peggy.  She  is  alone  among  the  others,  my  precious  black 
swan:  her  quaint,  dreamy  thoughts  are  not  their  practical, 
sunny  clear-headedness,  her  self -peopled,  solitary  wanderings 
are  not  their  merry  comradeships,  her  lovely,  statuesque 
movements  are  not  their  athletic  tumbles.  She  stood  to-day 

at  her  mother's  knee  in  just  the  attitude  S n  painted  them 

for  me,  her  eyes  clouded  with  awe  just  as  the  bloom  upon  her 
mother's  sweeping  gown  of  velvet  clouded  its  elusive  blue, 
the  soft  plume  upon  her  bride-maiden's  hat  leaned  against 
the  rich  lace  on  her  mother's  breast.  How  beautiful  they 
were!  As  I  stared  at  them  and  their  eyes  lighted  at  the  same 
moment  with  just  the  same  dear  smile,  so  that  they  were  more 
than  ever  wonderfully  alike,  I  heard  a  woman  whisper 
behind  me  that  the  gentleman  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Bradley 
and  her  picturesque  little  daughter  were  smiling  at  was  the 
child's  godfather,  an  old  friend — all  his  money  left  to  her 
and  his  namesake,  her  brother.  Before  the  whisper  had 
ended  Margarita  the  woman  had  turned  her  eyes  toward 
her  husband — they  could  not  leave  him  long  that  day — but 
Margarita  the  child  kept  hers  on  me,  and  under  them  the 
years  rolled  back  and  I  seemed  to  see  a  grave  young  girl 
sitting  on  the  sand  in  a  faded  jersey,  looking  down  into  my 
heart  and  telling  me  that  I  loved  her! 

How  many  times  since  have  I  not  seen  her  on  that  beach, 
cradling  her  rosy  babies  in  her  strong,  smooth  arms,  mur- 
muring with  her  graceful  daughters,  judging  mildly  between 
some  claim  of  her  tall,  eager  sons!  How  many  summer 
evenings  have  I  sat  with  Peggy  in  my  arms  and  watched  her 
pace  that  silvering  beach  with  her  husband,  hand  in  hand 
like  young  lovers!  I  think  they  forget  utterly  that  Time 
slips  by,  he  passes  them  so  gently. 

[295] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


It  is  a  favourite  claim  of  ours  who  are  bidden  to  that  home 
that  it  is  an  enchanted  isle,  and  that  he  only  brushes  it  with 
his  wings,  gliding  over,  and  turns  the  scythe  away  and  holds 
the  hour-glass  steady.  Even  the  children  feel  it:  it  is  a 
half -jesting,  half-serious  plaint  with  them  that  the  goats, 
the  donkeys,  and  the  ponies  to  which  they  successively 
transfer  their  affections  can  never  secure  immortal  youth 
by  a  yearly  sojourn  in  that  happy  kingdom.  I  offered  once 
to  rebuild  our  old  bridge — to  make  it  a  drawbridge,  even, 
and  thus  keep  our  treasure  safe,  but  after  a  long  council 
it  was  rejected. 

"  It  wouldn't  be  a  really  island,  then,  you  see,  Jerry  dear," 
said  my  Peggy  (always  deputed  to  bear  an  ultimatum  to  me) 
"and  we  like  it  better  an  island — don't  you?" 

Of  course  it  must  be  an  island!  It  was  marked  out  for 
an  island  when  first  the  waters  were  gathered  up  and  the  dry 
land  appeared.  I  think  all  the  happy  places  are  islands — I 
should  like  to  make  one  of  Italy.  I  am  convinced  that  when 
the  Garden  of  Eden  is  definitely  settled  (and  Major  Upgrove 
is  trying  to  persuade  me  to  come  with  him  to  find  it — he 
has  a  theory)  it  will  be  found  to  be  a  secret  isle  in  some 
great  estuary  or  arm  of  that  ageless  Eastern  river  suspected 
by  the  major.  Surely  that  mysterious  Apple  (of  whose 
powers  Margarita  was  once  so  sceptical)  never  grew  on 
any  vulgar,  easily-to-be-come-at  mainland!  No,  it  lurks  to- 
day in  its  own  island  Paradise,  and  the  angel  with  the  flam- 
ing sword  cut  the  land  apart  from  all  common  ground  so 
that  the  furrows  smoked  beneath  it  as  the  floods  raced  in. 
If  we  find  it — the  major  and  I — shall  we  bring  some  apples 
back  to  Peggy  ?  In  truth,  I  am  none  too  sure.  Why  my 
darling's  sex  has  been  so  eager  for  that  Apple  is  not  yet 
entirely  evident — though  I  am  not  too  stupidly  obstinate  to 
admit  that  it  may  be  evident,  one  day.  But  the  fact  re- 
mains that  Eve  certainly  regretted  it,  and  Adam,  one  would 
suppose,  must  have,  for  he  has  been  settling  dressmaker's 
accounts  ever  since! 
[296] 


IT    IS    A    FAVOURITE    CLAIM   OF    OURS    WHO  ARE    BIDDEN   TO   THAT    HOltE 
THAT    IT    IS    AX    ENCHANTED    ISLE 


THE    SUNSET    END 


As  to  the  position  held  by  this  father  of  mankind  among 
the  Bradley  children,  by  the  way,  volumes  might  be  written. 
To  suppose  that  Barbara  Jencks,  their  bond  slave  in  all 
else,  has  remitted  an  atom  of  her  zeal  in  bringing  them  into 
the  state  of  religious  conviction  enjoyed  by  the  Governour- 
General's  family,  would  indicate  the  densest  ignorance  of 
her  character.  And  success  has  not  been  entirely  lacking, 
for  my  namesake  delights  in  the  battles  of  the  Kings  and 
Sue's  sweet  life  is  a  very  Sermon  on  the  Mount.  But  Lock- 
wood  still  sacrifices  to  Pan  among  the  beehives  and  pro- 
pitiates the  Thunder  God  with  favourite  kittens,  and  Roger 
the  Second  long  ago  informed  his  would-be  mentor,  to  her 
horror,  that  if  a  fellow  tried  to  be  like  his  father  and 
told  the  truth  and  worked  hard,  he  thought  that 
fellow  could  take  his  chances  with  God !  Dear,  ob- 
stinate lad,  with  your  cleft  chin  and  your  blue  eyes, 
it  is  not  your  grandmother,  who  leaves  her  Emerson 
and  her  Psalms  unread  together,  when  she  can  fill  her 
keen,  proud  eyes  with  you,  that  will  deny  your  simple 
creed! 

But  my  little  Peggy  has  outgrown  Pan,  and  scorns  to 
appease  her  baby  brother's  deities. 

"  I  asked  Roger,"  she  said  to  me  one  late  afternoon,  when 
we  sat  in  her  mother's  rocky  seat  and  watched  the  red  sun 
sink,  "why  the  sun  was  here — just  so  that  we  could  see 
things?  And  he  said  yes.  And  the  moon  the  same  way, 
for  night.  But  that  little  blind  girl  I  see  in  the  Park,  in 
New  York,  she  can't  see  things,  Jerry  dear.  She  never  can. 
What  is  that  for?" 

"  I  can't  tell,  sweetheart." 

"  You  don't  know,  Jerry  dear?" 

"No,  Peggy,  I  don't  know." 

"  But  someone  knows  ?  " 

"That  I  can't  tell,  either." 

She  turned  her  serious,  deep  eyes  on  me. 

"  But,  Jerry  dear,  nothing  can  be  that  someone — Someone 

[297] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


— don't  know,  can  it?  That  wouldn't  be  right.  There 
must  be  Some  one?" 

"  I  hope  so,  sweetheart." 

She  stared  quietly  at  the  rosy  ball  that  sank,  below  us 
and  far  away,  at  the  rim  of  the  sea — Margarita's  sea. 

"  I  know  there  is,  Jerry,"  she  said  simply.  "  Look  at 
that,  the  way  I  do,  and  you'll  know,  too." 

And  just  then,  I  thought  I  did  .  .  . 

Sue  was  at  the  wedding,  of  course,  grey,  and  a  little  worn, 
now,  but  dressed  &  merveille  and  delightful  in  her  pride  at 
her  genius-boy.  His  sister,  a  wonderful,  modern  young 
woman,  has  learned  her  "trade,"  indeed,  though  one  that 
her  mother  never  dreamed  of,  and  will  decorate,  furnish 
and  supply  with  everything  from  ancestral  portraits  to  patent 
mouse-traps  any  structure  from  a  hotel  to  a  steam-yacht 
that  you  may  place  in  her  capable,  college-bred  hands.  A 
remarkable  achievement  is  young  Susan — the  achievement 
of  the  fin  de  siecle  generation.  At  the  wedding-breakfast 
she  described  to  me  her  last  "job";  the  putting  in  com- 
mission of  a  dilapidated  fifteenth-century  chdteau  for  its 
new  oil-king  owner — he  was  born  in  a  bog-cabin  in  Ireland 
and  never  tasted  anything  but  potatoes  and  stir-about  till 
he  was  fourteen.  But  Susan  has  raked  Europe  for  a  service 
fit  for  him  to  eat  his  cabbage  from  and  Asia  for  rugs  fit  for 
his  no  longer  bare  feet,  and  has  deposited  his  good  American 
cheque  in  her  bank.  She  is  improving  the  occasion  of  her 
American  visit  by  an  extended  hunt  for  old  silver  and  brasses 
and  china  for  a  great  country  house  on  the  Hudson — its 
many-millioned  mistress  will  pay  well  for  her  "imported" 
treasures! 

Truly  is  Susan  a  lesson  to  us,  and  wide  would  be  her 
great-grandmother's  eyes  could  she  see  Susan  disposing  of 
her  girlish  samplers  and  draping  her  camel's-hair  shawl 
behind  a  Hawthorne  jar.  And  I  am  bound  to  admit  that 
Susan  is  not  marrying,  though  her  mother  was  struggling 
with  two  delicate  children  at  her  age.  No,  Susan  has  no 
[298] 


THE   SUNSET   END 


need  to  "  marry  to  get  away  from  home."  As  fast  as  this 
accomplished  young  woman  establishes  herself  in  a  charming 
house,  some  envious  person  buys  it  of  her,  and  she  moves 
serenely  to  a  new  one,  a  contented,  self-  respecting  Arab  with 
a  bank  account. 

Ah,  well,  perhaps  it  v/ill  be,  as  her  mother  triumphantly 
declares,  all  the  more  honour  to  the  man  who  gets  her, 
after  all!  We  oldsters  must  not  be  stubborn,  nowadays. 

My  mother,  like  old  Mrs.  Upgrove,  is  living  still;  well  and 
happy,  both  of  them,  thank  God,  and  as  proud  of  their  sons 
as  if  either  had  ever  done  anything  to  deserve  it.  Neither 
of  them  has  much  to  say  of  Margarita,  I  have  noticed,  though 
both  fondle  her  children,  a  little  absently,  perhaps,  and 
feign  to  wonder  what  it  is  we  see  in  Peggy  that  blinds  us  to 
the  excellencies  of  the  others — stouter  children  and  more 
respectful,  my  dear! 

And  Death,  that  spares  them  both,  and  old  Madam  Brad- 
ley, too  (eighty-eight  now  and  half  paralysed  for  nearly 
twenty  years!),  what  had  we  done  that  he  should  take 
away  one  whom  we  and  the  world — her  world — could  so 
ill  spare  ?  Does  Someone,  indeed,  know  why,  my  sweet- 
heart Peggy  ?  I  try  to  think  so,  but  it  is  hard  to  see. 

Nine  years  ago  Harriet  put  Peggy  into  her  mother's  arms 
and  praised  the  little  thing  and  kissed  them  both,  and  then 
told  Roger  that  she  must  leave  them,  for  she  felt  ill  and  would 
not  risk  the  responsibility  of  further  nursing.  She  would 
send  a  good  nurse  straight  from  New  York,  she  said,  and 
Roger  himself  took  her  there,  leaving  the  doctor  with  Mar- 
garita, as  soon  as  he  dared.  He  brought  back  the  other 
nurse,  wired  me  to  look  after  Harriet,  and  left  her  com- 
fortable in  the  little  apartment  of  a  good  friend  of  hers,  with 
a  promise  of  a  speedy  return.  He  never  saw  her  alive  again. 

Dr.  McGee,  even  then  a  famous  physician  and  devotedly 
attached  to  her,  worked  day  and  night  over  her,  but  it  was 
useless;  the  over-strained,  busy  heart  had  given  way  and 
she  lived  only  three  days,  growing  feebler  with  every  hour. 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


I  was  sitting  beside  her  in  the  afternoon,  trying  to  be 
cheerful,  trying  to  cheer  her  with  those  futile  subterfuges 
we  are  forced  to,  trying  to  get  it  all  clear  in  my  own  troubled 
mind,  when  she  smiled  whimsically  at  me  and  begged  me  to 
spare  myself  such  pain. 

"A  nurse  is  the  last  person  to  need  such  talk,  dear  Mr. 
Jerrolds,"  she  whispered  to  me,  and  as  the  good  deaconess 
who  had  been  her  first  helper  in  her  chosen  work  burst  into 
tears  and  stumbled  from  the  room,  she  put  out  her  hand  and 
I  took  it  silently. 

"What  you  have  been — what  you  have  been,  Harriet!" 
I  muttered  unsteadily,  and  then  her  eyes  met  mine. 

"  What  have  I  been  ?  "  her  lips  barely  formed  the  words, 
"  do  you  know  ?  " 

There  in  her  soft  brown  eyes  I  saw  at  last — at  once. 
God  knows  I  never  guessed  before.  They  met  mine  so 
calmly,  so  honestly,  so  fearlessly — alas,  they  could  be  fear- 
less now! 

"And  I  have  been  such  a  fool — such  a  brute!" 

"Hush!  you  never  knew,"  she  whispered,  "you  could 
not  help  it,  my  dear.  It  was  so  from  the  very  first — when 
you  saw  my  diary." 

"But  I  might— I  might  have " 

Again  she  smiled  whimsically. 

"  O  no,"  she  said  quietly,  "  there  was  no  chance  for  me, 
of  course.  I  never  dreamed  of  it,  my  dear.  But — but  I 
wanted  you  to  know  it.  There  has  never  been  anybody 
but  you." 

I  tried  to  speak,  but  could  not,  and  again,  but  the  words 
dried  on  my  lips.  Then  I  saw  that  she  was  sleeping — from 
exhaustion,  probably,  and  sat  by  her  in  silence  till  the 
deaconess  came  back,  red-eyed,  and  sent  me  away.  I  bent 
over  her  and  kissed  her  cheek,  before  I  left,  and  I  am 
sure  that  her  lips  moved  and  that  the  hand  I  had 
held  while  she  slept  pressed  mine  faintly.  But  she  did 
not  open  her  eyes,  and  in  the  morning  the  message  came 

[300] 


THE   SUNSET   END 


that  she  had  drifted  easily  away,  in  that  same  sleep  before 
dawn. 

Gone — and  I  never  knew,  never  faintly  surmised,  never 
considered! 

Gone — and  there  had  never  been  anybody  but  me! 

Ah,  Peggy,  there  had  need  be  Someone  that  knows,  to 
make  good  the  pity  of  it,  the  cruelty  of  it,  the  senseless 
waste  of  it! 

But  we  three,  whom  she  gave  so  generously  to  each  other, 
whom,  in  turn,  she  tended  back  to  life,  into  whose  lives  she 
has  grown  as  a  tree  grows,  can  we  call  her  love  wasted  ? 

Nor  is  it  among  us  alone  that  her  memory  flourishes.  No 
woman  in  all  those  mountain  parishes  she  loved  so  well 
faces  her  dark  hour  of  travail  without  blessing  her  name  and 
the  name  of  her  messengers,  whom,  in  the  endowment  called 
in  memorial  of  her,  Margarita  sends  to  them,  to  tend  them 
and  the  children  they  bear,  as  Harriet  helped  her  and  hers. 
She  lies  among  them,  a  stone's  throw  from  the  corner-stone 
she  laid  nearly  twenty  years  ago,  now,  and  many  visitors 
have  never  seen  the  tablet  that  lies  along  her  grave — so 
thick  the  flowers  are  always  lying  there. 

"Mother  says  you  are  not  to  look  so  sad,  Jerry  dear, 
because  it  isn't  me  that  Freddy's  marrying!"  says  Peggy 
softly,  behind  me,  and  I  come  back  to  the  present,  with  a 
jerk. 

"  Not  Freddy,  perhaps,"  I  answer  with  pretended  severity, 
"  but  some  other  young  sprig  no  better  than  Freddy,  and  then 
poor  old  Jerry  may  go  hang!" 

She  slips  her  firm  little  hand — Margarita's  hand — into 
mine  shyly. 

"Now,  Jerry,  how  silly  you  are!"  she  says,  looking  care- 
fully to  see  if  I  am  teasing  her  or  by  any  chance  in  earnest. 

"  How  can  I  marry  a  young  sprig,  when  I  am  going  to 
marry  you?" 

"  Since  when  ?  "  I  inquire  sardonically. 

"Why,  Jerry!" 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


Her  big  eyes  open  wide,  she  plants  herself  before  me  and 
stares  accusingly. 

"  You  know  very  well — you  can't  have  forgotten  ?  You 
and  I  and  little  Jerry  and  Miss  Jencks  are  going  round  the 
world  when  I  am  sixteen!  To  Japan,  and  see  the  wistaria 
and  the  cherry  blossoms  and  the  five  hundred  little  stone 
Buddha-gods  that  get  all  wet  with  spray  and  the  red  bridge 
nobody  may  walk  on!" 

"  Anywhere  else  ?  " 

"  Yes,  to  Vevay  and  see  where  Mr.  Boffin  used  to  live 
and  old  Joseph  that  told  you  when  you  were  all  grown  big 
and  went  back, 

"C'est  moi,  Monsieur,  qui  suis  Joseph:  f  ai  nettoye  les 
premieres  bottes  de  Monsieur!'  " 

How  well  I  remember  those  first  formidable  boots,  and 
my  manly  feelings  when  I  clumped  them  down  in  the  hall 
before  my  door  for  Joseph  to  clean !  Jerry  and  Peggy  and  I 
are  going  over  every  foot  of  the  old  grounds — the  school, 
where  the  little  fellows  still  sport  their  comfortable,  round 
capes;  the  way,  well  trodden  still,  I'll  wager,  to  the  old 
patisserie  with  its  tempting  windows  of  indigestible  joys; 
the  natatorium  where  we  dived  like  frogs;  the  English 
church  where  we  learned  the  Collects  and  eyed  the  young 
ladies'  school  gravely  till  it  blushed  individually  and  col- 
lectively; the  famous  field  where  I  fought  the  grocer's  boy 
who  cried  "a  bas  les  Anglais!"  three  days  running.  (He 
beat  me,  incidentally.) 

I  find  that  all  the  old  memories  come  back  very  sweetly: 
I  had  a  happy  childhood,  on  the  whole,  one  that  never  lacked 
love  and  sympathy.  Believe  me,  ye  parents,  who  think  that 
these  days  will  soon  be  forgotten,  they  make  a  difference, 
these  idle  memories,  and  life  is  inexpressibly  richer  if 
those  early  days  are  rich  in  pleasant  little  adventures 
and  cheery  little  experiences,  cheerily  shared!  I  have 
more  to  remember  than  Roger,  whose  early  boyhood  was, 
though  far  wealthier  than  mine,  strangely  poorer  from 
[302] 


THE   SUNSET   END 


the  lack  of  just  this  mellow  glow  over  and  through 
it. 

And  Margarita's?  We  shall  never  know  what  filled 
those  silent,  childish  hours  of  hers,  alone  with  the  dogs  and 
the  gulls.  Her  quaint  lonely  games,  her  towers  of  sand  and 
shell,  her  musings  by  the  tide,  her  dreams  on  the  sun- 
warmed  rocks — I  fancy  I  see  them  all  in  watching  Peggy. 
She  cannot  tell  herself. 

"I  began  to  live,"  she  says,  "when  I  met  Roger." 

"  You  have  lived  a  great  deal,  since,  have  you  not,  Mar- 
garita?" I  say,  a  little  wistfully,  perhaps,  she  is  so  splendid 
and  so  complete,  and  one  seems  so  broken  and  colourless 
and  middle-aged  beside  her. 

"A  great  deal.  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  she  answers,  and  her 
eye  rests  quickly  but  surely  on  Roger,  on  each  of  the  yellow 
heads,  then  on  the  dark  one,  and  then,  at  last,  on  me. 

"You  have  given  up  a  great  deal  for  those  handsome 
heads,  Margarita,"  I  go  on,  under  the  spur  of  some  curious 
impulse,  "did  you  never  regret  it?  You  had  the  world  at 
your  feet,  Madame  used  to  say,  and  you  gave  it  up  ..." 

She  looks  at  me  with  the  only  eyes  in  the  world  that  can 
make  me  forget  Peggy's,  and  gives  me  both  her  hands  (one 
with  a  flashing,  cloudy  star  sapphire  burning  on  it)  in  that 
free,  lovely  gesture  so  characteristic  of  her. 

"Don't,  Jerry!"  she  says  in  her  sweet,  husky  voice,  and 
Roger  hearing  it,  turns  slightly  from  his  guests  and  gives 
her  a  swift,  strong  look.  The  gay  wedding  crowd  melts 
away,  the  clatter  of  the  wine-glasses  is  the  wash  of 
pebbles  on  the  beach,  her  hand  in  mine  seems  wet  with 
flying  spray,  as  she  speaks  in  that  rich,  vibrating  voice,  for 
me  alone: 

"I  had  the  world  at  my  feet— yes,  Jerry  dear,  and  I 
nearly  lost  it,  did  I  not?  I  did  not  know,  you  see.  And 
I  have  it  now,  Jerry,  I  have  it  now! "  (O,  Susan  of  the  bank 
account,  who  need  not  marry  to  get  away  from  home,  will 
that  look  come  to  your  eyes  and  glow  there  till  your  face 

[303] 


MARGARITA'S    SOUL 


is  too  bright  for  an  elderly  bachelor  to  bear?  Indeed,  I 
hope  it  may!) 

"There  is  only  one  world  for  a  woman,  Jerry,"  says 
Margarita  softly,  "and  no  one  can  be  happy,  like  me,  till 
she  lives  in  it — the  hearts  that  love  her.  His  and  theirs — and 
yours,  dear  Jerry,  O  always  yours!" 

His  and  Theirs  and  Mine! 

Amen  to  that,  my  dear,  and  surely  if  there  is  Someone 
that  knows,  He  knows  that  what  you  say  is  true ! 


[304] 


THE   COMPLETE  WORKS 
OP 

WILLIAM  J.  LOCKE 

"LIFE    IS    A    GLORIOUS    THING." — W.  J.    Locke 

"If  you  wish  to  be  lifted  out  of  the  petty  cares  of  to-day,  read  one 
of  Locke's  novels.  You  may  select  any  from  the  following  titles  and 
be  certain  of  meeting  some  new  and  delightful  friends.  His  char* 
acters  are  worth  knowing." — Baltimore  Sun. 

The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne  The  Demagogue  and  Lady  Phayre 

At  the  Gate  of  Samaria  The  Beloved  Vagabond 

A  Study  in  Shadows  The  White  Dove 

Where  Love  Is  The  Usurper 

Derelicts  Septimus  Idols 

I2mo.     Cloth,     fa. 50  each. 

Eleven  volumes  bound  in  green  cloth.    Uniform  edition  in  box. 
$16.50  per  set.    Half  morocco  $45.00  net.    Express  prepaid. 

The  Beloved  Vagabond 

" '  The  Beloved  Vagabond '  is  a  gently-written,  fascinating  tale. 
Make  his  acquaintance  some  dreary,  rain-soaked  evening  and  find 
the  vagabond  nerve-thrilling  in  your  own  heart." 

— Chicago  Record- Herald. 

Septimus 

"Septimus  is  the  joy  of  the  year." — American  Magazine. 

The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"  A  literary  event  of  the  first  importance." — Boston  Herald. 
*•  One  of  those  rare  and  much-to-be-desired  stories  which  keep  one 
divided  between  an  interested  impatience  to  get  on,  and  an  irresis- 
tible temptation  to  linger  for  full  enjoyment  by  the  way." — Lift. 

Where  Love  Is 

"A  capital  story  told  with  skill." — New  York  Evening  Sun. 

"  One  of  those  unusual  novels  of  which  the  end  is  as  good  as  the 

beginning." — New  York  Globe. 


WILLIAM  J.  LOCKE 
The  Usurper 

"Contains  the  hall-mark  of  genius  itself.  The  plot  is  masterly  in 
conception,  the  descriptions  are  all  vivid  flashes  from  a  brilliant 
pen.  It  is  impossible  to  read  and  not  marvel  at  the  skilled  work- 
manship and  the  constant  dramatic  intensity  of  the  incident,  situ- 
ations and  climax." — Tht  Boston  Herald. 

Derelicts 

"  Mr.  Locke  tells  his  story  in  a  very  true,  a  very  moving,  and  a 
very  noble  book.  If  any  one  can  read  the  last  chapter  with  dry 
eyes  we  shall  be  surprised.  '  Derelicts  '  is  an  impressive,  an  im- 
portant book.  Yvonne  is  a  creation  that  any  artist  might  be  proud 
of."—  The  Daily  Chronicle. 

Idols 

"  One  of  the  very  few  distinguished  novels  of  this  present  book 

season." — The  Daily  Mail. 

"  A  brilliantly  written  and  eminently  readable  book." 

—  The  London  Daily  Telegraph. 

A  Study  in  Shadows 

"Mr.  Locke  has  achieved  a  distinct  success  in  this  novel.  He  has 
struck  many  emotional  chords,  and  struck  them  all  with  a  firm, 
sure  hand.  In  the  relations  between  Katherine  and  Raine  he  had 
a  delicate  problem  to  handle,  and  he  has  handled  it  delicately." 

—  The  Daily  Chronicle. 

The  White  Dove 

**  It  is  an  interesting  story.  The  characters  are  strongly  conceived 
and  vividly  presented,  and  the  dramatic  moments  are  powerfully 
realized." — The  Morning  Post. 

The  Demagogue  and  Lady  Phayre 

"Think  of  Locke's  clever  books.  Then  think  of  a  book  as  differ- 
ent from  any  of  these  as  one  can  well  imagine — that  will  be  Mr. 
Locke's  new  book." — New  York  World. 

At  the  Gate  of  Samaria 

"  William  J.  Locke's  novels  are  nothing  if  not  unusual.  They  are 
marked  by  a  quaint  originality.  The  habitual  novel  reader  inevi- 
tably is  grateful  for  a  refreshing  sense  of  escaping  the  commorv 
place  path  of  conclusion." — Chicago  Record- Herald. 


ANATOLE  FRANCE 

"Anatole  France  is  a  writer  whose  personality  is  very  strongly  re- 
flected in  his  works.  .  .  .  To  reproduce  his  evanescent  grace 
and  charm  is  not  to  be  lightly  achieved,  but  the  translators  have 
done  their  work  with  care,  distinction,  and  a  very  happy  sense  of 
the  value  of  words." — Daily  Graphic. 

"We  must  now  all  read  all  of  Anatole  France.  The  offer  is  too 
good  to  be  shirked.  He  is  just  Anatole  France,  the  greatest 
living  writer  of  French."  — Daily  Chronicle. 

Complete  Limited  Edition  in  English 

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designs  by  Beardsley,  initials  by  Ospovat.  $2.00  per 
volume  (except  John  of  Arc),  postpaid. 


Balthasar 

The  Well  of  St.  Clare 
The  Red  Lily 
Mother  of  Pearl  , 

The  Crime  of 

Sylvestre  Bonnard 
The  Ganien  of  Epicurus 
Thais 
The  Metric  Tales  of 

Jacques  Tournebroche 
Joan  of  Arc.    Two  volumes. 

$8  net  per  set.  Postage  extra. 
The  Comedian's  Tragedy 
The  Amethyst  Ring 
M.  Bergeret  in  Paris 
The  Lettered  Life 


Pierre  Noziere 
The  White  Stone 
Penguin  Island 
The  Opinions  of 

Jerome  Coignard 
Jocasta  and 

the  Famished  Cat 
The  Aspirations  of 

Jean  Servien 
The  Elm  Tree  on 

the  Mall 

My  Friend's  Book 
The  Wicker- 

Work  Woman 
At  the  Sign  of 

the  Queen  Pedauquc 

Profitable  Tales 


GILBERT  K.   CHESTERTON 

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"Is  likely  to  produce  a  sensation.  An  extraordinary  book  which 
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Religion;  Woman,  etc. 

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VERNON   LEE 

Uniform  sets  bozed.  8  volumes.  Cloth.  $12.00  net. 
Express  extra.  $1.50  net  each.  Postage  10  cents. 

%*  "If  we  were  asked  to  name  the  three  authors  writing  in  Eng- 
lish to-day  to  whom  the  highest  rank  of  cleverness  and  brilliancy 
might  be  accorded,  we  would  not  hesitate  to  place  among  them 
Vernon  Lee." — Baltimore  Sun. 

Laurus  Nobilis.     Essays  on  Art  and  Life. 
Renaissance  Fancies  and  Studies. 
The  Countess  of  Albany. 

Limbo  and  Other  Essays,  including : 
"Ariadne  in  Mantua" 

Pope  Jacynth,  and  Other  Fantastic  Tales 

Hortus  Vitse,  or  the  Hanging  Gardens 

The  Sentimental  Traveller 

The  Enchanted  Woods 

The  Spirit  of  Rome 

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